


His Man Malcolm

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Ensemble Cast, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hantari Prime– an insular society with a ferociously hierarchical system. What will they make of a Commander and a Lieutenant joined at the hip? Obviously, master and servant!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Away Team

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and not mine, this starts off as an ensemble piece before normal Tucker/Reed service resumes.  
> I should add that sentences in italics represent a character's thoughts.

The three-species away team strode into the transporter area in line astern, the Denobulan bringing up the rear actually rubbing his hands with glee as he bustled past his colleagues and hopped onto the pad. “It’s extremely good of you to allow me to accompany you, Captain,” he trilled, bright blue-white eyes dancing from Archer’s broad smile to Commander T’Pol’s professional blankness. “The Hantari appear to be a fascinating race. It’s rare to find a species so rigidly hierarchical in this day and age.”

With a last glance at the précis Hoshi Sato had pulled together from the Vulcan Database and the lengthy invitation from the High Temple of Hantari Prime, Jonathan Archer tossed the padd away, letting it clang against the floor in defiance of First and Armoury Officers alike. “Thankfully, Doctor,” he said mildly, taking his place alongside the excited physician. “I’ve been practising my formal obeisance all day for the Ceremony of First Greeting; and remember, if I turn my back on the Great Shrine of Hantaris too soon, we could all be lynched! We wouldn’t have gotten beyond the fifth planet out if they’d all been as difficult to deal with as this. You have the co-ordinates for the Chamber of Homage, Malcolm? We’re to arrive just outside the main doors...”

“All set, Sir.” The stern set of Malcolm Reed’s thin lips betrayed his disapproval, and with an inward sigh Archer met the cool grey gaze directly, the slightest inclination of his lofty head permission to express it. “But I wish you’d reconsider and take a security detail with you! It doesn’t have to be me – just someone who can shoot straight!”

“They specifically requested no weapons be brought as a sign of good faith; and Commander T’Pol’s satisfied the Hantari pose no threat.” He’d had his answer to that one waiting. “You’ve got to admit, everything in the Vulcan database checks out so far. An ancient, extremely formal race with a precise code of honour and a rigid hierarchical society. Guests, so long as they’re of suitable status and adhere to the social code, are a sacred charge. We’ll be okay.”

The small crease Jonathan Archer’s best friend declared the cutest thing he’d ever seen appeared between the Englishman’s eyebrows. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Commander, but didn’t you _also_ say the records of the Vulcan database were compiled entirely from second-hand evidence?”

“Indeed.” Taking her place between the two men on the pad, the Vulcan seemed content to leave it at that. Her human interrogator was not.

“From multiple sources?”

“Certainly. The Tellerites and the Tarkelians aren’t always the most agreeable species, but their reports are usually trustworthy. The High Command concluded from the evidence of several encounters that Hantari Prime was of limited interest, so never sent a contact mission.”

That caught the curiosity of the two most inquisitive beings on the ship. “Why not?” Archer demanded, shooting his fellow human a mischievous grin. “They’re warp capable; so they’re clearly an intelligent species even by Vulcan criteria. Hell, you dropped in on Earth for no better reason than that! Why ignore the Hantari?”

She’d deny it until the Vulcan Science Directorate admitted it might have been wrong about time travel, but Reed identified mild irritation in the First Officer’s exaggeratedly polite response all the same. “The circumstances were different, Captain.”

“Oh?” Only T’Pol remained oblivious to the enjoyment Jonathan Archer had gleaned over years of provoking her. Her glossed lips tightened visibly while Phlox had to smother his smile. 

“My people had observed Earth’s indigenous species prior to initiating contact on Dr Cochrane’s successful flight, Captain. They judged humans to be a resourceful species capable of change and advancement. No such observation has been made in several centuries among the Hantari. Their planet is an insignificant Minshara class world, and beyond an academic curiosity about the archaic attitudes of its people, the species itself is uninteresting.”

“Come now, Commander, no species deserves to be dismissed out of hand! Even the Tellerites, when you get past their innate rudeness, have some fine qualities.”

“And many unpleasant ones, Doctor.”

Malcolm Reed found himself feeling acutely sorry for his commanding officer. Stuck between an immovable Vulcan and an over-excited Denobulan ready to debate their solemn truths with the whole Science Directorate at once given half a chance... small wonder if Jonathan Archer was getting keener on the Hantari by the minute! 

“Your own records suggest the Hantari appreciate music,” the doctor pointed out proudly. The tip of one eyebrow twitched. 

“Indeed, but I don’t see the relevance…” 

“Surak himself declared that one of the criteria by which a civilisation could be deemed advanced was its artistic development. Perhaps we could suggest a small cultural exchange, Captain? I’m sure Commander Tucker would be willing to demonstrate his musical skills....”

“Which half the residents of B deck liken to the dying wails of a burning kitten, Doctor?” Malcolm put in helpfully. The good-natured alien blinked rapidly.

“The harmonica’s not to everybody’s taste, Phlox; and let’s just get the formalities out of the way before we start planning any cross-cultural exchanges, okay?” 

Reed’s fingers tightened on the transporter lever. Obviously Trip’s best friend was no fan of his bloody mouth organ either. _Amazing how after all these years, Archer’s still going up in my estimation._

“The greeting ritual does seem particularly _stylised_ , Captain.” When Phlox’s hands started to outpace his words, it was time for drastic action. “Are you sure we shouldn’t take Ensign Sato... in case of misunderstandings?”

“As long as we follow the script there won’t _be_ any misunderstandings; which means I do the talking, and you just bow at the right moments. Malcolm, keep a presence at the transporter ‘til we’re back.”

“Aye, Sir.” It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. Reed knew he’d managed it; he also knew the Captain was fighting off a grin at the physical effort it had cost him. “Co-ordinates set. You’ll land at the main doors of the correct room – if the Vulcan database is accurate.”

Now the grin was overt, and Phlox’s shoulders were starting to shake. “Archer to Trip: hold station, and remember; it’s an insult to Hantaris to move out of the line of his second moon. Put us down, Lieutenant.”


	2. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Contacts are what he's out there for, but Jonathan should know by now - they're a minefield.

The heavily inlaid black doors of the Great Temple Hall swung inward without a creak. Squaring his shoulders Archer dipped his head and strode in at a slow march, acutely conscious of his companions flanking him, two paces back as befitted their inferior status. He didn’t have time to imagine what this was costing Miss Superior Senses in the instant before a booming voice rang off the silver-veined black stone columns that framed the rectangular space. He stopped; sucked in a breath; and made two stiff bows from the waist, careful to keep his eyes veiled as he rose to admire the massive shrine raised on a platform in the centre of the room.

“Salutation, honourable Archer, Leader of the community of Enterprise; scion of the planet Earth. Approach the High Altar of Hantaris and be welcome.”

He didn’t hear the tread of their feet stop behind him – couldn’t hear his own through the plush turquoise carpet that led up three shallow steps to a gem-crusted shrine which dominated the silent chamber, sparks of a dozen different hues lancing where sunlight from ceiling-high windows struck its jewelled sides. Keeping his head low, he ran the tip of his index finger along the raised silver rim that protected a shimmering pale wood casket, reminded at the worst moment of his mother’s habit of checking every picture frame for dust. “In the name of the community of Enterprise, humble thanks and greeting.”

Damn, he was glad Trip couldn’t see this! The genial Southerner would laugh his butt off at so much mystical mumbo-jumbo. Backing away from the shrine with tentative steps, Archer repeated the mantra again in the hope of convincing himself he really didn’t miss the antidote to formality that was his best friend’s unaffected presence at all.

“Noble Leader, we thank you for graciously participating in our greeting rite.” For the first time he looked up, his heart jumping a beat at the youthfully attractive face, the smooth skin dusted with a sheen of faint gold sparkles, that filled his vision. “I am Kas’pin, Hereditary High Priest of the Temple of Hantaris and Keeper of these, His sacred bones on which you have affirmed your good faith. Allow me to present Dri’nan, chief minister of our government; and these, our officers in attendance. If there is aught that can be done to ensure your visit to us is comfortable, pray tell us at once.”

“You’re extremely kind…”

“Please, honourable Leader.” Even when he smiled, the High Priest’s features didn’t furrow. He glided forward in a flurry of purple velvet and snowy fur, clasped hands lifted above his gilded crown of flowing hair. “Address me as Kas’pin.”

“Kas’ _piin_ ,” he parroted carefully, winning a small huff from the even taller, onyx-haired chief minister, moving up at the High Priest’s side, which appeared to signify approval. “And if there’s any way we can prove our friendly intentions to Hantari Prime…”

“Your veneration for our customs is evidence enough, Leader Archer.” Dri’nan’s extravagantly elegant obeisance made him feel distinctly ungainly. “Few species we have welcomed have shown the reverence of our ways you display.”

“We have a saying on Earth: when in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Kas’pin’s brow furrowed briefly, drawing delicate golden eyebrows but his companion merely lowered his glossy head in approval, wings of silky hair falling onto his moulded cheekbones. 

“A generous principle, Leader,” he murmured, bottomless black eyes narrowing from their golf ball roundness at his unconscious shuffle. “Forgive me; you seem alarmed by the title I bestow. Is there perhaps a designation by which you prefer to be known?”

“I’d be honoured if you would call me Jonathan, Dri’ _naan_.” Had Hoshi said anything about not smiling, he wondered, extending the second syllable of the minister’s name. Two thick midnight eyebrows rose.

“Jo-na-than. That is your given name, as Dri’nan is mine?”

Obviously, smiling was okay. He could almost hear the click of Phlox’s mental stylus and affection for the happy Denobulan made his grin widen. This was an amateur anthropologist’s idea of paradise, and as long as the Hantari remained friendly he didn’t mind providing a little supplementary entertainment. “Yes; it’s the name I ask my friends to use, and I’d be honoured if you would do the same.”

The Hantari dignitaries’ deep bows matched to the millimetre. “The honour is ours, Jo-na- _than_ ,” Kas’pin intoned, the slight lift of an elegant hand that needed no rings to glitter with the lustre of gold and silver bringing two small and wizened creatures in purple velvet tunics forward, gnarled hands clasped and grey heads bowed. “Allow that I have the honour to present this child, Rhi’nan – my eldest son, heir to this priestly honour, born to me of my first wife Rit’ana, sister to Dri’nan; and this, Dri’nan’s firstborn, Mia’la, daughter to his second wife Kat’ina, who attends upon us here.”

From the shadow of a pillar a slender woman with cascades of titian hair sank into a perilous curtsy, the sight bringing a slight softening to the finely-chiselled features of the chief minister. Archer couldn’t help wonder how two such beautiful beings could create something as misshapen and ugly as the girl staring up at him.

Not that the equally lovely Kas’pin had fared much better. Rhi’nan puckered his thin lips, the lines that bracketed his dark blue eyes deepening. “Venerable Father, how can this unlined youngling be Leader?” he exclaimed in a scratchy voice that made Archer wince.

It had a greater effect on Dri’nan, who flicked out a hand, almost languid despite the force of a blow that echoed like a pistol shot. “Insolence toward our honoured guest! Most High Priest, noble Leader Jo-na-than, crave pardon! My sister’s hand is too slack on this wild one’s leading rein!”

“The sin is as much mine as hers, Dri’nan.” Kas’pin had gone parchment white, making the metallic glints stand out strongly over his defined bone structure, faint tremors visible in the heavy folds of his sweeping robe as he fought for control. “Rhi’nan, you have been too much indulged, that you would deride a guest at the steps of the Great Shrine itself! Crave pardon on your knees, boy, lest the Great Hantaris strike down all of your sullied blood!”

“There’s really no need,” Archer cut in hurriedly above the rising hubbub of agitated whispering that rebounded off the room’s soaring columns. “It’s flattering at my age to be called young! I’m what used to be called middle-aged in human terms, Rhi’nan – please, stand up, it’s okay.”

The boy glanced quickly at his father, then more lingeringly toward his uncle, waiting for the taller Hantari’s nod before clambering awkwardly to his feet and smoothing out his crumpled tunic. “You are not young, honoured Leader?” he squeaked.

“I’m the oldest Human on Enterprise.” T’Pol wouldn’t like the qualification, but as it would be illogical to deny the truth she couldn’t argue. Kas’pin coughed delicately, drawing attention away from his wayward heir as Dri’nan dismissed both children with a flick of the finger.

“The unlined ones we observed during our momentary visual connection with your ship…” he began, the effort of finding a diplomatic phrase bringing a mild crease to his forehead. Archer grinned.

“My Helm and Communications officers are the youngest of my senior staff, Kas’pin; humans develop visible lines as they get older.”

“How – unusual.” For Dri’nan that was tactless, and his hawkish features tightened in pained realisation. “The High Priest and I are at the peak of the Hantari age, Leader Jo-na-than; we can but hope Rhi’nan will have attained the same years and wisdom when he is called to the venerable position his father holds now! Perhaps you will present your attendants to us? Forgive me – their species, like your own, is not known to us.”

“This is my First Officer, T’Pol of Vulcan; and Doctor Phlox, from Denobula Prime.” Waving them forward with relief he didn’t notice the narrowing of Hantari eyes in surveying the woman in her usual close-fitting catsuit. The silvery tip of Kas’pin’s tongue darted out to touch his full bottom lip. 

“Accept our greetings, daughter of Vulcan and son of Den-Denobula Prime,” he stuttered. “Perhaps – Dri’nan…

“Of course, High Priest.” A glance her way summoned Kat’ina, her loose hair swaying in a brilliant cloud as she sank to her knees at her husband’s side. “My wife will escort your First to a suitable place of waiting until you are pleased to summon her, Jo-na-than. The harem is enclosed and comfortable.”

Archer’s mouth dried to match the endless deserts of T’Pol’s homeworld. “Uh – _harem?_ ” he squeaked as the bamboo-slight Hantari wife took a motherly grip of Vulcan arm. “I –uhmm…”

“Your concubine will be tended by my own officers, honoured Leader,” Kat’ina pledged, her melodious voice turning the promise to music. “And be assured; no male enters the sanctuary without the assent of my lord and the High Priest’s Grace. Come, Lady T’Pol.”

He had to admire her dignity, even with indignation oozing out of every pore. Hoshi might have squealed or put up a fight; what Morozova or Callis might do didn’t bear thinking about. _Where’s Trip with his camera when you really need him? And do Vulcans have a phrase about curdling the milk?_

The atmosphere lightened the moment she was out of the room; not an unusual occurrence he acknowledged, guiltily aware he was blaming T’Pol for his own horrific error. “I hope – I mean…”

“Dear Jo-na-than, we are not barbarians; innocent errors by well-intentioned friends do not offend the Hantari.” Kas’pin’s graciousness only tightened the knot in his guts but he ducked his head in thanks all the same, keeping it bowed until the moisture of shame had dried in his eyes. “And your wisdom in having a personal physician attend you in crossing the stars is much to be commended. He is your personal taster, I imagine? Dri’nan, perhaps a tour of our guest quarters – and the kitchens - would reassure this good man…”

“That’s quite unnecessary I assure you,” Phlox protested, barely blenching at the suggestion he play guinea-pig to protect his C.O. from a poisoner. Archer gave him a purse-lipped glance and his hands came up in a very human gesture of submission. “But of course, I’d be very interested to see more of your beautiful palace, High Priest….”

“It shall be done.” Kas’pin clapped his slender hands and a bevy of wrinkled males in tunics of coarse canvas inched forward, knees bent and heads down. “Show the physician in ordinary to our guest all he desires; and have him offered food and wine. Noble Jo-na-than, you will walk in the gardens with us? We have a small request to make of you, in the name of the friendship you have nobly offered us.”

“Anything I can do…” Naked as he felt without his advisers he allowed himself to be guided between the two willowy Hantari, avoiding the eyes of the servants who threw themselves to their knees at the trio’s approach. They wanted something. That had been obvious from the first garbled transmission to reach Enterprise. He only wished they’d cut the crap and come right out with whatever it was.

Instead, they had to take three long turns through verdant gardens, pausing to admire a dozen fountains that tinkled invitingly on the way before Dri’nan, with a sheepishness Archer hadn’t expected of the man, cleared his throat and paused in the shade of a purple-flowering palm tree.

“We must apologise again, dear Jo-na-than, for the inexcusable failure of our communications array when your vessel first sought to contact us.”

“Sometimes our technologies just aren’t immediately compatible, Dri’nan.”

“Your devices are admirable; ours, however…”

“Our efforts to correct the failures within our power systems have met with disaster.” Kas’pin’s perfect silk-and-glitter complexion flushed until his whole face sparkled like a Christmas bauble. “In attempting to correct one error, they triggered another, and another... our whole power grid is compromised; every system affected, communications, defensive systems, even life support. If you were able to assist us – you surely have minions of technical skill...”

“It’s not a technology we’ve had any experience with, but I’m sure my Chief Engineer and Armoury Officer would be happy to take a look,” he volunteered, offering up a quick prayer to the god of big-mouthed Starfleet captains. “If you’ll allow me to contact the ship...”

“We would be for ever grateful, gracious Leader.”

Deftly he snagged the communicator from his pocket and flipped it open, aware of his hosts withdrawing to a discreet distance. Usually he’d think the courtesy unnecessary, but as Trip Tucker’s loud halloo greeted his hail he wished they’d move even further away.

“Y’alright down there, Cap’n?” The strong southern accent thickened, a sure sign that perceptive judge already knew the answer. Archer’s shoulders heaved in a massive sigh.

“I’m fine, Trip.” And he was; if Malcolm could be _fine_ with four broken ribs, concussion and a knife wound in the thigh, he was okay with his first officer in a harem, his doctor stuck with the title official food taster, and a pair of sharp-eared Hantari much too nearby. 

“Our hosts are having a little trouble with their main power grid,” he added, loud enough to be easily overheard. “They’ve got cascading failures which have reached several keys systems, including their weapons. They were wondering if I had anyone aboard who might be willing to take a look.”

He could picture it so clearly; the blond engineer perched on the edge of his borrowed chair, waggling his eyebrows as he looked over his shoulder to the tactical station. Malcolm would sit back, arms folded and head cocked, suspicion warring with curiosity until…

“Malcolm an’ I could come down tomorrow, Cap’n; it’s a bit late to be startin’ any repairs now. You still plannin’ to stay for dinner?”

“That’s the general idea. I’ll advise the chief minister to expect you after breakfast. Oh, and Trip? See if Hoshi can figure out what I said to get my First Officer escorted to the local harem. Archer out.”

The comm. line cut on his old friend’s explosive cry of _“What!”_ His belly prickling with a set of completely new nerves triggered by what he’d set in motion, Archer wandered back indoors hearing nothing the Hantari leaders said, lost in his thoughts.

They’d shown no sign of hostility, and while Trip, by his own admission, could be a jerk at times, Malcolm’s stern sense of duty would keep them both out of trouble.

_Yeah, right. Like that’s worked in the past._

Entering the marble Dining Chamber, already laid out for a feast with three chairs raised on a canopied dais at the far end of the room and long, lower trestles with stools arranged in neat rows before them, Jonathan Archer mentally straightened his priorities for the evening.

Rescue T’Pol from the harem and Phlox from the servants’ quarters; survive dinner without embarrassment; get home and lecture two senior officers on _proper form_.

His day just wasn’t going to get any better.


	3. Alarming Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The senior staff consider Archer's Hantari experience and draw a few uncomfortable conclusions in the process.

“The Hantari term for a servant seems to be _officer_ , Captain.” Tucker had to give her credit: Hoshi Sato was keeping a straighter face than he could manage in the face of Johnny’s dismay and T’Pol’s barely-repressed outrage. She’d deny it ‘til her ears turned Andorian, but this time the Vulcan was visibly bristling.

“So when I introduced T’Pol as my First Officer they thought…” 

All the blood in his body, Archer knew, was rising, but he couldn’t stop the terrible words. “They thought I meant….”

“That she was your most important female servant,” Sato finished, letting her long black lashes sweep down over the unconstrained glee she knew must glow in her eyes. “And since you didn’t have a wife, they thought that must make her your favourite, ummm, concubine.”

“First lady of the bedchamber, so to speak,” Reed murmured, only the blue glint in his stormy-sky eyes betraying his amusement.

Travis Mayweather’s discipline failed completely, his whole body shaking with a guffaw that began in his boots. “Sorry,” he snorted, both hands clapped over his mouth. “It’s just – what I’d have given to see your faces!”

“It’s more or less the reaction you’d find in mediaeval Europe,” Malcolm put in, so perfectly bland Trip knew right off he wasn’t really trying to be helpful. “And honestly, that’s what the Hantari resemble, if I’ve read the briefing notes correctly. It was more or less expected that the lord of the manor – that’s you, obviously, Sir – would make full use of all his servants’ er – services.”

A Vulcan death-glare. He’d seen the nerve-pinch in action, but never this particular weapon before. _Pity we can’t bottle it; that look would scare off a Klingon fleet!_

“Um, Cap’n? This mean they think we’re all your servants?” Baiting T’Pol was Tucker’s second-favourite Enterprise sport, but some things were altogether too serious to joke about. 

_Aw, shit! That sounded just like Malcolm!_

“You may be in the clear; I called you my Chief Engineer, and they sure seem to have the same understanding of that word as we do.”

“Commander Tucker is your subordinate, Captain.” Though her ample bosom rose and fell more conspicuously than usual T’Pol’s voice was commendably unconcerned and her slightly heightened skin tone, Trip suspected, wouldn’t be noticed by anyone who hadn’t seen her in the grip of emotional struggle before. “However, the Hantari will probably accept him as being a member of the secondary caste which includes professional people whose parentage and skill-set make the invaluable to the community.”

“And the rest of us?”

“I’m afraid I referred to you as my Armoury Officer, Malcolm.”

“I’d best leave a forelock over my eyes to tug on when spoken to then, Sir.”

“ _Lieutenant_ might mean something to them, Malcolm?” Hoshi suggested, clutching, he thought at a straw that had sailed off in the Hantari breeze. “And – well, they may be a little confused about Trip. _Commander_ , in their dictionary, seems to represent the most senior servant of a noble or professional establishment.”

“So they think he’s the chief eunuch. Bloody marvellous.”

“Are you all right, Ensign?” Phlox had either the worst sense of timing or the best comic judgement Trip had ever seen, distracting the rest of the staff from his full-body blush as their gurgling boomer’s lips started to turn blue from lack of oxygen caused by his futile effort at stopping the giggles by holding his breath. “The Hantari caste system is more complex than any I’ve encountered before, Commander – really minute differences in rank that wouldn’t matter elsewhere seem to be of primary importance to them.”

“As the Vulcan database said.” Time, Archer thought, to give T’Pol a little of her dignity back. “Contact between superiors and their subordinates is strictly limited and highly regulated. I’m sorry to have put you in this position, Malcolm…”

“Not to worry, Sir. I’m sure Commander Tucker will enjoy my being required to hold my tongue for a change.”

“Heck, I won’t know what to do if you’re bein’ all polite an’ subservient. Cap’n, do they know about us bein’…”

“There’s nothing in the Vulcan database about their attitude to same-gender relationships, Trip.” He’d known the subject would be raised, and hoped (as had the junior officer involved, given the steely, purse-lipped look he directed Tucker’s way) it might be done in the privacy of the ready room. “Everything I saw down there tells me that’s because the Hantari have no experience of them, and…”

“Likely every damn prejudice in the galaxy.” The blond’s shoulders slumped, and his boyfriend’s irritation visibly evaporated in the face of such open distress. “Sheesh, Cap’n, what have you got us into here?”

“You can ahem, _abstain_ for a couple of days in the name of inter-species harmony, right?” Damn, he was blushing hotter than either of them, longing for a Suliban cell ship to decloak off the port bow just to put them all out of their misery. “We _do_ know relationships between social classes are punishable by death, and I don’t want either of you coming home minus your scalps.”

“Can’t you just send someone else down to babysit him, Sir?” 

Malcolm Reed could hardly believe the words came from his own mouth. The thought of sending somebody else to an unknown planet to work beside his partner among strangers who might, however cordial they seemed, turn vicious at any moment, was anathema to him as a senior officer as much as a lover, and yet…

Long hours, maybe days, in close proximity to that wonderful body, knowing he dare not touch, nor even look too closely…playing the humble ( _never!_ ) subordinate and watching every word and inflexion for a trace of forbidden affection, knowing Trip must be in agony too: not to mention the nerve-stretching tension of just waiting for the great daft open-hearted twerp to forget and lay an oh-so-loving arm around his shoulders. 

He’d endured torture by Suliban, impalement by Romulan metal and persecution by over-cheery Denobulan (plus menagerie) in his years aboard Enterprise. But Malcolm Reed knew he could not tolerate the feigned indifference of the man he loved: or the prospect of actively concealing the best thing to have happened in his life.

He didn’t have to glance aside to know Trip’s mobile features would be displaying the same conviction. He could feel the tremors of tension running through the taller body as if they were breaking all their self-imposed rules and actually touching on duty. “Cap’n,” the Southerner wheedled, one look at Johnny’s stern face enough to make clear he was wasting his breath. “You don’t really need us to do this, do ya? I mean, we could take turns to go down – keepin’ the ranks apart an’ all. They’d like that wouldn’t they?”

“Sorry, Trip.” He was. Letting The Disaster Twins off the ship together was an open invitation to trouble at any time, and Jonathan Archer had the grey hairs to prove it. Sending them, less than a year into a romance of galactic intensity, to a planet where the smallest wrong glance could lead to a flogging was like disengaging the hull plating before sailing into the middle of a Romulan armada.

“Their power grid’s a humdinger and it’s completely fried, according to Dri’nan. I took a look at their weapons array too: it’s the most complex I’ve ever seen. I can’t allow anyone but the best to stick his fingers into it, and that means you, Lieutenant.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Sir.” Gloomily accepting the inevitable Reed swayed away from his lover’s enticing warmth, mentally snapping the clasps of his boyhood armour around taut limbs. “We won’t let you down.”

“I know that, Malcolm.”

Trip caught his old friend’s eye and mischief, all too briefly, chased his misery away. Jon was looking down at the dark-haired Brit with a fond, paternal smile. _My God. I’m in love with my best friend’s adopted son!_

Well, Mal hadn’t had much biological luck. Trip had yet to meet Captain Stuart Reed, R.N and he hoped to keep it that way for a long, long time. At least his honorary Starfleet dad appreciated Malcolm the way he deserved.

“Yeah, you can trust us, Cap’n,” he agreed tiredly, just wanting the meeting over. Wanting to drag his stunning partner off to his lair, to fill him up with enough love and pleasure to see them through however many arid days of abstinence lay ahead. “Guess if T’Pol can survive an alien harem we can handle this master an’ servant thing for a couple of days.”

“Just don’t get ideas above your station, Malcolm.” Travis was smirking again at the image of the First Officer among a bevy of perfumed concubines, which suggested to Archer the meeting should end. The Armoury Officer arched a well-marked brow.

“I believe that advice is no less applicable to Commander Tucker, Captain,” he said mildly, sending Mayweather off into another fit of barnstorming hilarity. “Because if you expect the subservience to continue back aboard, _Sir_ , you’ll get a personal demonstration of why Captain Archer chose me of all the available tactical specialists to be his armoury officer! Permission to leave, Captain?”

“And take him with you.” Leaving Hoshi to pound the choking helmsman on the back Jonathan Archer fled to the haven of his ready room before T’Pol could hold him back for any patronising Vulcan lectures. “Launch bay one, 0800 hours. I know you’ll be kind of busy tonight, but try not to be late, alright? The Hantari are renowned for their punctuality.”

“We have something in common after all.” On that unarguable point, Reed hustled his lover into the turbolift. They’d wasted enough time on the Hantari code of conduct; now he wanted to see how many ways an inventive man could find to break it in ten hours.

One look at Trip’s glowing face reassured him; he’d have plenty of help on that score.


	4. His Man Malcolm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a high-powered welcome committee for the boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I've mentioned this, but it's worth stating at this point - sentences in italics represent a character's thoughts.

“Honoured Commander Tucker, in the name of the great Hantaris, and of Kas’pin his High Priest, salutation! I am Dri’nan, Chief Minister of this world. Enter the Palace of the Welcome and take your ease; our officers will be summoned presently to lead you to our great power facility.”

“That’s real kind of you, Chief Minister.” Nerves thickened up his accent until he sounded more like his dad meeting a new opponent at the golf club back in Mississippi. Trip tucked his hands behind his back to stop himself offering the human greeting, bobbing his head awkwardly in response to the slender Hantari’s graceful reverence. “Your technology’s nothin’ like ours, so like Cap’n Archer said I can’t make promises...”

“Your candour is respected, noble engineer.” From his greater height, Dri’nan could peer directly over the blond head and down onto the submissively lowered sable one of Trip’s companion a pace behind. “This must be Reed – your man.”

All the blood drained south from the engineer’s handsome face, not stopping at its usual midway destination on the plummet to his boots. _What gave us away?_ “Um, er, I guess...”

_Blithering halfwit!_

The insult fired through his brain at warp 7; about warp 6.98 faster than the chuntering idiot in front of him could manage, Malcolm decided fiercely. Taking advantage of his innate stealth (and the fact that nobody watched the dogsbody in his master’s presence) he aimed a steel-capped boot at the Tucker shin with all the fabled accuracy of his beloved phase cannons.

He had to admire the way the clown suppressed his automatic wince as Malcolm withdrew the offending foot before it was spotted by any of Dri’nan’s attendants; a handful of men in dark green canvas gowns and two Amazonian females, each as tall as Travis Mayweather, yet so slender the lightest breeze might knock them down, attired in gauzy folds of translucent silk. “Yeah, Lieutenant Reed’s our weapons specialist,” Trip announced way too loudly, inviting him nearer with the jerk of a finger. “The cap’n says your defensive array’s offline...”

“Your leader declared this minion’s services to be of value to you, Commander,” Dri’nan remarked, ebony gaze assessing and dismissing said minion in a moment. Convinced he could hear the hiss of steam escaping his lover’s ears, Trip managed a tentative smile. “We have placed a cot for him in your dressing chamber. Is this acceptable? If you would prefer, he can be easily accommodated among those of his own position.”

“That’ll be jus’ fine, Chief Minister, thank you. I’m kinda used to havin’ him around. Um, you mind if we go in? I’d like to get settled before we take a look at your power grid.” 

“Of course, forgive me. You have walked some distance from the landing site.” With a jerk of the head, Dri’nan had the gates of the gleaming white stone structure behind them opened, and was leading them under an extravagant portico, through a set of sparsely-furnished porter’s rooms and out into an open courtyard filled with flowering shrubs and trees as tall and slender as the Hantari themselves. Malcolm took a deep breath and held it, keeping his head down for more than mere discretion as he crossed the fragrant quadrangle. The last thing he needed was an allergy attack in a place where _officers_ barely merited feeding, still less medical care!

Innate fairness kicked him hard in the balls. The Vulcan database made clear that certain classes of servant were highly regarded by the Hantari; those will specialist skills, or entrusted with intimate access to their masters’ bodies. The placement of his cot suggested he’d been accepted as a member of that narrow echelon. 

It could be worse. Not, he admitted, by much, but at least he hadn’t been kicked off to the kitchen like Phlox.

A small grin tugged his puckered lips. _Or the harem._

The teasing potential of that thought distracted him until they were safely indoors, up a flight a broad black stone stairs and entering a luxurious suite dominated by a curtained bed, large windows thrown wide open overlooking a tranquil vista of rolling lawns. The treacly voice of the Chief Minister seeped through his sweat-damp skin, his diminished status freeing his usually hyperactive mind from the need to analyse the actual words, right until he sensed the tall man turn, penetrating ebony eyes scrutinizing every detail of his posture.

“May I enquire, noble Commander – how do you address your man? We would not wish to insult so essential an attendant in any way.”

The tip of Trip’s tongue appeared for a nanosecond at the corner of his mouth. “Uh, guess I usually call him Malcolm – that’s his given name –“ he stumbled. “Or Mal, which is kind of a nickname; I’m the only one calls him that. Sometimes I’ll say Lieutenant: that’s his official rank on Enterprise.”

“Then he shall be _Loo-te-nant_ to us,” Dri’nan decreed, fouling up the ancient title perfectly. Trip could gauge the intensity of his lover’s wince even with his back turned. “Please. Take time to accustom yourself to your accommodations; should aught be lacking, send Loo-te-nant to summon my officer Mak’ran: he will wait at the portal, and bring the commander of our reactor plant to you. Have I your consent to retire”

Trip doubted his jerky nod was the kind of graceful gesture a Hantari noble expected, but it got the message across. The instant they were alone Reed whipped a scanner from his pocket and began a methodical inspection of their suite.

“Seems clean,” he muttered after two circuits. As he disappeared into the yielding embrace of a massive feather bed, Tucker waggled his eyebrows. 

“Forget the scanner; tell me what you think,” he instructed. Arms folded, Malcolm pursed his well-cut lips.

“Gut instinct?” he asked mildly. Trip nodded. “All right. Their code of honour’s too rigid to permit snooping on guests.”

“My feelin’s exactly darlin’, so why dontcha come down here an’ let Doctor Trip rub some of that tension away?”

“We’re on duty, Commander.” A comet-flare of blue in the stormy eyes betrayed to one who knew him so well exactly how tempted Malcolm was to do just that. “And for Christ’s sake, watch your mouth! _Darlin’_ might take some explaining, and you know I’m no good at improvisation.”

“Oh, you can be good enough, with the right incentive.” Humour melted like ice cream under Monrovia’s twin suns, leaving bone-deep dismay to turn the strong, confident features down. “You know I won’t screw up, dontcha? I may be a moron sometimes, but...”

“Oh, Trip.” It broke his heart to see insecurity shadowing those lovely, sunny eyes; to know he’d put it there with his thoughtless words made Reed long to test out his legendary flexibility in an effort to boot himself up the arse. “I’m picking up your habit of sending mouth to warp while brain’s still in space dock. I know you’ll be the perfect professional. The Captain wouldn’t have sent us otherwise.”

It probably wasn’t in keeping with Archer’s innocent good faith for him to crouch before the bed and cup the beautiful, honey-gold face between his hands, but Malcolm shoved the thought aside. “We can do this. Starfleet’s finest. I can even be submissive – for short periods.”

“But usually only when there are silk scarves an’ blindfolds involved,” Tucker murmured, rubbing his heightened skin tone against the callused palms. Malcolm snorted.

“ _Only_ when they’re involved in our quarters, Mistah Tuckah,” he growled, fighting off the tingly sensation that tickled his nether regions at the memory. “This is going to be hard enough without you mentioning nights like _that_.”

“No kiddin’.” Trip’s strong hands came up to mirror the position of his, the slight dampness of his palms sliding against newly-shaven skin. “Hell, how’re we gonna do this, Mal? They ‘spect me to fix up their whizzy weird power systems an’ you’re meant to fetch, carry an’ mop my overheated brow. Shit, when we get to their torpedoes, I’m gonna be the one handin’ tools t’ you, and what’re they gonna think of that?”

“That I have specialist skills in that area which led to my being placed at your service, Commander: because that’s what we’re going to tell them, agreed?”

“I guess so.” Reed released him and he flopped back full-length, sinking into the softness of the bed. “Starfleet’s fuckin’ finest. Y’ know there are times I wish I’d never made it past ensign.”

“I’m sure the Captain feels the same.” Especially when he had to let his two most accident-prone subordinates loose on a planet where their very personal connection could see their skins turned into high-class wall hangings. 

“Mind you,” Malcolm added, letting his grin turn wicked as he said the first thing that came to mind to lighten his lover’s gloomy mood. “I’ve never really seen myself as the _glamorous assistant_ type. Pity the pallet they’ve set up for me was designed for a dwarf; getting my beauty sleep’s not going to be easy! Are certain Hantari castes much shorter than the nobles d’ you think? Their women tower over you, yet I’ve got a couple of boards and a straw mattress Porthos couldn’t stretch out on.”

“You can’t sleep on _that_!” Trip protested two minutes later, having hauled himself into the dressing area to survey the crude board-and-straw contraption, presumably designed for a native child, that had been dumped in the far corner for his companion. His handsome face, gilded by the bright sunshine streaming through the window opposite, contorted adorably into clownish disdain. “If you don’t break your back, you’ll be eaten by blood-suckin’ fleas or somethin’ livin’ in the straw. Dammit, Malcolm, it’s just _wrong_.”

“Can’t say I like it myself, but the Captain’s counting us.” A tentative tap on the main door distracted them, and with a groan Reed dipped his head, darting across to answer it as befitted his humbler status.

“Loo-te-nant?” Oh well, it would amuse Trip, so he’d better accept the mangled designation with good grace he thought, inclining his head to the straight-backed, salt-and-pepper haired Hantari in rich turquoise tunic and hose who looked right over his head straight into Tucker’s narrowed eyes. “I am come for the noble engineer - my name is Commander Tir’nan. My lord Chief Minister instructed me, honourable guest, to lead you to our main power plant at your earliest convenience. I understand this _follower_ will attend you.”

“He’s my assistant,” Trip announced, his posture screaming defence. Tir’nan’s amber eyes made a more leisurely sweep of the smaller man.

“He looks fragile.”

“You might be surprised.” Before Malcolm could offer a demonstration of quite how surprised, Trip inserted himself between the two, one hand already stretched out for the toolbox he’d dumped on a convenient side table. 

“Allow me, Sir.” Quick as a striking serpent Malcolm had both their tool cases in his hands, his long lashes cast demurely down as he dropped into his superior’s wake. Trip bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

The bastard _knew_ he was irresistible when he got coy!


	5. The Bowels Of The Operation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've been sent to do a job. Alien technology's tricky even when you don't have to watch every word and look.

The generator was housed on the edge of the city in a palatial building of glistening onyx, soaring obelisks clawing the bright blue sky every ten metres around its heavily-guarded exterior wall. At the doorway of each a youthful Hantari, silver-haired and lined around eyes and mouth, stood ramrod straight with ceremonial pike in hand, so deliberately not watching the alien intruders Tir’nan led past they felt as if a billion eyeballs were piercing their necks at every step. 

Malcolm was thankful his diminished status limited the avid attention that came his way. Trotting in Tir’nan’s long-striding wake he listened attentively while appearing completely oblivious, mentally ticking off the points from Hoshi and T’Pol’s detailed notes. 

“All our power is generated in this way; through the forcible crushing of rock to refine vital minerals and the harnessing of the energy produced,” Tir’nan announced over the crunch and whine of the massive machine. “This is the auxiliary unit; the only one functioning since the crisis began. You will examine it, honourable Engineer?”

Grit and smoke struck the newcomers in the back of the throat from a thunderous extraction process which reminded Reed of nothing more than England’s Industrial Revolution almost half a millennium ago. 

They had entered on the lower floor: evidently the preserve of the grime-encrusted menials, their thin grey garments stained with smoke, ash crusting their forehead creases. In the centre of the space a mammoth grinding machine stood, slowly turning like a quern stone from ancient Earth, crushing to dust and liquid vast quantities of silver-veined red and grey rock, the residue of which flowed sluggish as a silted river down transparent chutes into, Reed assumed, equally gargantuan basement receptacles. 

“Our main generators are three times lager; both were operating at full capacity at the time of the first power surge,” Tir’nan bawled over the eardrum-scraping din. “With our non-essential systems offline, we have sufficient power to support life in comfort, but the sensor arrays and secondary utilities are entirely disabled. Commander, your technology is greatly superior to ours: please, do not conceal your equipment behind your back, but use it freely. My lord Chief Minister commands that every facility we have be made available to you.”

“That’s real good of him, Commander.” Unobstructed by any of the mute Hantari operating it Malcolm had approached the immense circular grinder, his mouth pulled up in an unconsciously delightful purse that made Tucker’s heart and balls tighten fast. “You got somethin’ there, Lieutenant?”

“ _This_ is the residue of your generation process, Commander Tir’nan?” It was a risk addressing his betters unbidden, but Reed hadn’t attained his Starfleet eminence by playing safe. Surprise lit up the silver sparks beneath Tir’nan’s translucent skin.

“Engine-grade deuterium is a _by-product_?” Tucker erupted, all the courtesies forgotten as he dodged the maintenance staff to wave his scanner over the gleaming fluid. “Sonofabitch! And you think out tech’s more advanced than yours!”

“We use deuterium, as you do, to power our fleet.” The glitter effect faded; bushy eyebrows knit, Tir’nan dropped his hands onto the spotless rail that framed the grinding equipment. “All of which is grounded through failures in the launch systems; it is perhaps fortunate the defensive array was the first to fail; deuterium torpedoes are highly unstable unless rigorously controlled.”

“Deuterium _torpedoes_?” Malcolm’s scanner clattered to the slab stone floor. “How on Earth do you keep the warheads stable in flight? Good Lord, imagine the power-to-weight ratio! Of course, _you_ probably can’t, Commander.”

“You’re the explosives guy, Mal.” Amused by his partner’s excitement (and for the first time grateful the man habitually used his rank when on duty) Trip gave his shoulder a hearty clout. Tir’nan’s sharp intake of breath whistled by his ear.

“You permit your man great liberties, noble engineer,” he ground between pearlescent teeth. Trip turned on his most engaging _Aw, shucks_ grin.

Malcolm focussed on the lazy glug of deuterium through a tube at midriff level. Safer to look at anything but that warm _dumb hick_ smile that rusted right through the iron of his self-control!

“Malcolm’s real useful to me, Commander Tir’nan,” the great daft Southern lummox drawled, adding a shoulder-squeeze to his lover’s torment. “An’ I kinda like him talkin’ back – helps keep me on my toes.”

Tir’nan’s pout, impressive as it was, didn’t liquefy his innards the way Mal’s did. “The attendants who accompanied your venerable leader showed, I understand, _proper reverence_ …”

“Yeah, well the gulf between the Lieutenant and I isn’t that wide.” By the pained stillness of the Lieutenant’s posture Tucker gathered he was on the brink of either a meltdown of giggles or a humongous sulk, either one of which might get them thrown off the planet minus their hides. Tir’nan frowned again.

“Is it custom for the higher officer to have such freedom with his betters on your world?” he questioned, turning his back on Reed with insulting deliberateness. Malcolm stuck out his tongue.

Trip’s gut spasmed, sending him into a vicious coughing fit. 

“Water for your master, boy!” A heavy hand caught Reed square between the shoulder blades, making him lurch violently over the chopper rail. Trip’s arm shot out only for the smaller man’s innate balance to snap him back to safety, already heading for a sealed small ante-chamber containing a gurgling water fountain. By the time he returned, eyes cast deferentially down as he handed over a glass slippery with cool condensation, Tucker had control of himself.

Until the near-side of the Englishman’s mouth twitched upward. _Dammit Malcolm, stop torturing me!_

“Maybe we could get started?” he suggested, dragging his attention from his lover’s way-too-innocent face with a physical effort. “Obviously if this turbine’s workin’ the problem’s gotta be somewhere within the EPS grid. You mind if we take a look at that?”

“EPS grid?”

“I believe the commander means your sensor arrays, Sir.” 

“Ah, of course.” Being addressed by one of the lower orders alarmed Tir’nan which, Tucker knew, would rile Mal into speaking up every chance he got. “You will have Loo-te-nant’s assistance, Commander?”

“Wouldn’t be without it.” Stepping aside, Trip ushered their host up one of the vast steel wall ladders to a sterile environment peopled by smooth-browed Hantari in pristine what tunics. Without asking permission he sauntered to a vacant console and began the random button-pressing of the utterly bewildered. “What d’ you think, Mal? Looks like the whole networks just about been fried.”

“Looks more scrambled to me – Sir,” Reed responded, adding the title as a hasty afterthought. “Bloody hell, it’s as if we’ve got bits from half a dozen jigsaws, and no picture to look at! What did they do to overload their systems like this?”

“Re-routin’ your main power through the ancillaries didn’t work, huh?” A glance over his shoulder confirmed Tucker’s instincts. Tir’nan’s erect posture drooped. “It’s the obvious thing to try when all your systems are goin’ down around your ears,” he added kindly. “Malcolm…”

“Hmph.”

Trip rolled his eyes. “Lieutenant? I was hopin’ for somethin’ a little more constructive,” he sang.

“Isn’t your scanner working, then?” Irritably, Reed flicked at one burned-out cable. “ _Oops!_ ” he mouthed Tucker’s way as Tir’nan expelled an aggrieved mew. 

“You’re here for a reason, Lieutenant, and it ain’t your pretty looks.” He’d pay for that shot later, but watching Malcolm’s eyes flash fire Trip figured it was worth the pain. “I’m real sorry, Tir’nan; sometimes he gets a little wild, but like I say – I‘m used to havin’ Mal around.”

“You are a tolerant man, Commander Tucker.”

Reed’s shoulders heaved. “Well, you’ve gotta take the rough with the smooth, my granny always said. Malcolm here’s got skills.”

“Ah, I _see_.” Glittering highlights broke out under the Hantari’s skin again; he actually rubbed his hands, making the sparkles in his fingers dance beneath the room’s strong fluorescent lights. “Loo-te-nant is constrained by poor hereditary! You ought to have made that plain at once, dear Commander! There is no menial more to be pitied than the clever one condemned by the ignoble blood of his progenitors.”

Trip’s chest tightened so fast he couldn’t breathe. Tentatively he peeped under his lashes at the man beside him, panicked by the scrunched cast of the aristocratically fine-cut features. He was just manoeuvring himself into position to intercept the blow when their eyes met and relief made him sag dizzily against the console.

Malcolm, damn his pretty grey-to-blue-and-back-again eyes, was fighting a losing battle with a gut-buster laugh.

“Um, yeah, guess so,” he stuttered, fumbling desperately for an excuse to get his man away. “Mal, would you go get me some more water?”

The lieutenant’s lips vanished altogether as he nodded, bolting with an alacrity he only usually showed escaping Sickbay. “Tir’nan, take a look at this,” Trip continued, jabbing a long finger at the console’s display. “I’m thinkin’ these relays should be realigned to bypass this fried section: then we can reconfigure the grid one section at a time.”

Five minutes and much furrowing of brows later, the Hantari was bawling out his orders like an old-style sea captain in a storm and Malcolm, grit in his glossy hair and a smear of ash on the end of his nose, pattered back with refreshments for his friend. “You got it together now?” Trip enquired, leaning close enough to cool that gleaming brow with his ice-watered breath. The lips he dreamed of parted into a brilliant smile.

“Until I imagine Pop’s reaction to hearing all those generations of admirals dismissed as _ignoble_.” The word emerged on a snort, the deceptively narrow shoulders jerking through a quickly-controlled convulsion. “Thanks for getting me out of the way.”

“Anytime.” He was so unspeakably kissable in mischief. Tucker could feel himself leaning in, mouth already puckered for the inevitable smooch. Reed coughed quietly and, face flaming, he snapped back.

“You wanna start realigning the secondary conversion matrix?” he suggested, much too loudly. Blue sparks lanced through his lover’s downcast eyes.

“Certainly, Sir,” he agreed, dropping to a stage-whisper. “Perhaps you’d like me to shove a broom up my arse and do the floor while I’m at it?”

Tucker’s half-stopped guffaw rolled through the cathedral hush like thunder, but he didn’t care. They were together. Whatever the Hantari caste system threw, they could handle it.


	6. Intimate Attendance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow they've created a favourable impression, but can the noble engineer and Loo-te-nant keep up their act when they're (almost) alone?

Eight hours later every muscle in Trip Tucker’s body was knotted up worse than the Hantari sensor grid, but he could accept the effusive thanks of his watchdog with a sense of smug satisfaction while watching a dozen hibernating consoles twitter and flash awake around the second generator chamber. “’nother day of this and we’ll have all your systems up an’ running, Commander Tir’nan,” he observed, shoving a strand of sweat-darkened hair back off his face. “Maybe we can take a look at those weapons systems in the mornin’?”

“It will be an honour, noble Commander. Will you do us the great compliment of taking our teleportation device back to your accommodations? Without your skills it would be useless…”

“Be happy to.” Anything was better than a half-hour hike in boots that felt two sizes smaller than they’d been on Enterprise. “It’s okay for Malcolm to come along with me? I mean, d’ you allow officers to use it?”

“Hantari minions are forbidden.” Tir’nan was learning, he’d give the man that; he timed the pause to perfection. “However, I have obtained the consent of my lord Chief Minister for Loo-te-nant to share the privilege with you in recognition of his great value. Please, step into the green circle; the device is entirely safe.”

Trip distinctly heard a clipped British mutter of _“guinea pigs!”_ as he obeyed. He felt a strange prickling on exposed skin, a faint tingle in his belly, and then the heat of the sun on his face as his molecules rearranged themselves (in perfect order as far as he could tell) outside the Palace of the Welcome.

“Not bad,” he announced, resisting the temptation to take his companion’s hand on the way through the gatehouse. “You okay?”

“For a menial, I suppose.” At the first sign of movement in the courtyard Reed fell back to his expected station a pace behind his superior. “Speed up, will you? I’ve had enough of this bowing and scraping to a blithering hick for one day!”

“Ah’m hurt, Loo-tenant.” With the door shut behind them the day’s strains melted away. Tenderly lifting the firm chin, Trip brushed a kiss across his boyfriend’s smile, his lips parting on instinct to the younger man’s questing tongue. Arms came up and hard, hungry bodies pressed, each man relishing the simple rightness of being close. “I love you,” he breathed when the need for air pulled their mouths apart. “Even when you’re bein’ all meek and un-Malcolm-y.”

“Only you could invent a word like that.” Common sense was screeching at him to end it now; but then, Reed conceded, common sense had squawked in protest that he’d even started it, and he’d been aching for the smallest demonstration of affection all day. “Oh, bugger off and leave us alone, you poker-arsed shower!”

The solemn tapping at the door continued. “You’d better go answer that, minion,” Tucker drawled, letting himself overbalance into the depth of the big white bed. Mouthing an obscenity over his shoulder, Reed resumed his subservient demeanour and did as he was told.

“Loo-te-nant, we bring rich oils for the noble commander’s bath.” Two youthful Hantari women in swathes of scarlet gauze half-bowed, each offering a bowl of pungent, treacly liquid that bypassed his nose and headed straight for Malcolm’s cock. Sweet and rich with just a hint of spice, they seemed to hold the essence of his honey-and-cinnamon lover and his unruly mind instantly conjured a sensual dream of them both naked and entwined, putting those luscious fluids to a mutually pleasurable use beyond the bathtub. “Does he require further services? We are at his disposal…”

“That’s jus’ fine, ladies; Malcolm’ll look after me.” Looming over the brunet’s shoulder, Trip grinned filthily at the women, both of whom began to sparkle like Tucker family Christmas trees with embarrassment. The elder, her hair beginning to take a golden gild at the root, sank into a deep curtsy.

“My lord Chief Minister had us come from the harem; you have no need for our services, honoured guest? Your leader was accompanied by his concubine, but you...”

From the corner of his eye he caught the minute flaring of English nostrils. _Don’t even go there, Mistah Tuckah!_

“Oh, well, thanks all the same, but Cap’n Archer – the Leader that is – I don’t think he’d like it if I...”

“As you will, noble visitor.” Without a word, the younger concubine tugged the door shut. Frozen in place, they could hear the cork soles of the women’s shoes squeaking their way down the corridor.

“I hope you’ve not committed some frightful breach of etiquette,” Reed remarked, not daring to look up from the bowls in his arms. Tucker sniffed extravagantly.

“Darlin’, it wouldn’t be the first time. Now, since you’re s’posed to be takin’ care of me, how about you go get us a bath ready?

He clearly heard the lieutenant’s growl of “slave-driver!” as the younger man sashayed across the suite.

*

“I think this is all we’re going to get.” Forehead creased and lips turned down, Malcolm glowered at the large copper bathtub as if it were personally responsible for the limitations of Hantari plumbing. The single tap dribbled apologetically into the half-filled circular tub for a further moment before cutting completely. “Tir’nan did mention they’ve been rationing their water supply.”

“That’s for both of us?” Wrapped in a decadent robe of brocade and fur, Trip shuffled to peer into the bath, leaving damp footprints on the cold marble tiles. Reed cocked a brow.

“I rather doubt the lower orders are supposed to bathe daily. Shall I take your robe, milord?”

“And scrub my back?” Grinning at his lover’s mock horror, Trip slithered out of the borrowed garment and into the hot water, groaning at its subtle bite. “Oooh, this is good!” he moaned, sinking until nothing below the chin protruded over the waterline. “If I’m quick, maybe you can hop in ‘fore they come back with dinner.”

“Which I suppose I’ll have to cut into tiny pieces and test for poison before feeding to you on the end of a silver spoon.”

“Baby you know I’ll share with you.”

The hated endearment won him a spiky look and a huff as Reed dipped both hands into the first pot of slippery gel. “Lean forward if you want you back doing, oh master,” he teased, stopped by the faint tickling sensation in his coated hands. “Oh, fuck.”

“Language, slave.” With his sleeves rolled up and the ointment covering him to the wrist like a pair of gloves, Malcolm stared at his tingling fingers as if they’d turned into claws. “Wassup?”

“This is going to be torture.” Without bothering to explain the brunet lunged forward, his splayed palms sweeping down Trip’s extended spine in a single stroke.

“Aaahhhh!”

Instantly it felt like every nerve ending in his back was doing a tap dance, a tingly awareness that swept and surged wherever Malcolm’s slippery hands paused. The feeling passed from spine to cock in a microsecond. Trip was certain his rearing dick would break the water surface any moment, and that was before Malcolm re-coated his hands and came back, deliberately brushing his man’s sensitive earlobe with a sigh as he slid his long, graceful fingers down into his victim’s chest hair.

“Good?” the husky British voice enquired, catching on the single syllable. Even through the fog of lust enveloping him, Tucker knew the signs. The strange sensation of unguent on his skin was affecting Malcolm just as viscerally. 

He whimpered, almost losing it completely when the questing fingers withdrew and returned, drenched in a fresh coat of balm. The greasy hands brushed his belly, fingers flexing while they crept lower, the touch overtly erotic now, intimate as Malcolm’s cheek rubbing against his own as the Englishman stretched, his target in plain sight. “’s good Malcolm,” somebody mumbled; probably, he thought hazily, the same somebody who was lifting his butt off the bathtub, presenting his dick to cool air and warm, welcoming hands.

Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d got so hard without being touched. Sizzles of pleasure raced along his arms from his slicked hands, detonating fireworks in his chest and sparking all the way down to his tender balls. Trip, his eyes half-closed, abandoned to sensation, writhed hard enough to send a wavelet splashing over the tub’s rim onto his dusty boot, utterly absorbed in the pleasure his lover offered. Reed bit hard into his bottom lip, absently retracting one hand to brush his own groin.

Even through the hard-wearing material of three Starfleet layers he felt the shimmering heat of the alien stimulant. His tight throat contracted around an agonised growl. 

“Mmmm darlin’ I’m close,” Trip slurred, slack-jawed and blissful as his glassy eyes met Reed’s. “Just a little lower, oh yeah, so good…”

He couldn’t resist any longer. Malcolm had to lean in and kiss that lovely, silly smile, and as he did so a drumroll started up in his head.

“Honourable engineer! Noble guest! We bring supper!”

“Shit!”

For a man on the brink of orgasm Trip reacted to unwelcome stimuli, Malcolm had to concede, damned impressively. He was up, out of the bath and wrapped up in his furry dressing gown before the dazed lieutenant could straighten his back and grab the nearest large object to hide the enormous tent in his pants. “Um, just leave it on the side table, okay?” the Southerner hollered, his face as florid as his deflating member. They heard the faint hiss of the opening door, then a small, embarrassed cough.

“Your man, Loo-te-nant. He will eat with us?”

Loo-te-nant’s mouth dropped. “Nah, he don’t eat much; he can have the bits I leave,” Tucker managed with impressive nonchalance, rubbing a hand through his hair as he wandered back into the main room. The mature blond Hantari in rusty black servants’ robes swallowed hard.

“If that is your wish, honourable Commander…”

“Sure is.” He could hear Malcolm shuffling up behind him, ready, he suspected, to apply boot to ass if he wavered. “There’s services I need him to perform for me.”

_You can forget that one, you cretin!_

“As your honour wishes.” With a low bow the servants withdrew. Trip whistled between his teeth.

“Guess that sounded even more incriminatin’ outside of m’ own head?” he ventured, holding out the garish platter of meat, cheese, vegetables and fruit like a white flag. Reed grunted.

“Let’s hope their society’s naïve as well as blinkered,” he returned, snatching his scanner from the table. Trip groaned.

“Darlin’, we’re doin’ them a favour,” he protested, wilting under the other man’s unblinking gaze. “Oh all right, if you've got to be paranoid!”

“Better careful than dead.” Evidently satisfied, the younger man seized a handful of white meat slices and chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad. Can I trust you with a carving knife, oh noble engineer?”

Laughing, his lover reached over and tweaked the end of his nose. “And with my wanderin’ hands, minion. That was _close_.”

Heat flooded his nether regions. “Yes, it was. Now change the subject, for Christ’s sake. My hands are still tingling.”

“I’m gonna take some of that stuff back to Enterprise.” Delighted by the unguarded look of mingled horror and excitement that claimed his lover’s angular features, Trip dug into his dinner with greater than usual relish. “Hey, this is good! Wanna try some of this red cheese stuff?”

*

“Aw, c’mon Malcolm, you can’t sleep in that.” They’d talked for hours, keeping hands firmly at their sides, by the time Reed decreed it late enough to retire. Stripped to his underwear the younger man tugged back his cot’s single coarse blanket aside and lifted a bare leg over the rough side, wincing against the scrape of straw poking through the wafer-thin mattress. “It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed just for sleepin’ before!”

“I appreciate your concern, love, but I’d better doss down where I’m supposed to. We don’t want to arouse – anything.” If they stayed a second night, he’d wear his coverall regardless of the creases, Reed decided gloomily as every effort at finding an itch-free position failed. “You can kiss me goodnight if you’d like, though.”

“Glad to, Lieutenant.” Trip's heart melted into his belly at the sight of his reason for living smiling beatifically up from a lumpy pillow, lips already parted in expectation of his kiss. “Sure you wouldn’t feel better about my safety if you were cuddled up in that great big feather thing with me?”

“Commander, your safety is of paramount importance to me. Therefore I’ll avoid getting you into any situation which might tempt our hosts to separate you from your lovely skin.” A hand brushed through his tousled hair and against every better instinct Reed arched toward it, a faint, fond smile drifting over his lips. “Now go to bloody sleep! The sooner tomorrow comes, the sooner we can finish up and escape to Enterprise.”

“Yessir.” Trip snapped off a cadet-smart salute and, throwing his clothing around with calculated abandon, crawled naked into the cushioned softness of the master’s bed, his tired eyes already closing.

An hour later he sat up, the pressure of frustration in his chest a solid, immovable object as Malcolm sighed and turned for the thousandth time in ten minutes, making his rickety pallet squeak and groan. “For cryin’ out loud, willya give it up an’ come in here so we can both git some sleep?” he hollered, no longer caring if a horde of Hantari servants were peeking through the keyhole. “You don’t want a cranky superior handin’ your tools tomorrow – or later today – right?”

“Sorry.” He doubted the man had ever sounded less apologetic – excepting maybe the time T’Pol had stumbled over them making out by the buffet table on Travis’ birthday. “I’m all over prickles; and I wouldn’t be surprised if the sodding thing isn’t alive with fleas.”

Though his flesh crawled Trip climbed out of bed, called for lights and tottered to loll against the dressing room wall. “This is insane, Mal. We’ve slept together – _really_ slept, I mean – before. We can handle it for one night.”

The man looked exhausted. And, to use his own term, crotchety as buggery. Bottom lip thrust out Reed gave in to the inevitable and scrambled painfully to his feet. Swayed back with relief, Tucker held out his hand.

“’s as much as I’ll touch of your gorgeous body, I promise,” he said solemnly, giving a gentle tug. The moment their heads sank into plush pillows, both men were fathoms deep.


	7. Torpedo Junction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weapons systems. There's an expert in the Enterprise team, but can the Hantari take the horror of an officer taking charge?

He knew the moment consciousness niggled his brain that something wasn’t right. He felt chilled; the bed was way too big. “Mal?”

“Morning.” Tucker dragged himself up onto a mountain of pillows, blinking blearily in the bright morning light. Immaculately turned out in uniform, every hair in place, Reed grinned at him from the floor where he was assiduously scraping away at his lover’s grime-stained boots. “Breakfast’s on the table and it’s quite safe; scanned and tasted by your lordship’s obedient attendant. What did you _do_ yesterday that I didn’t see? Tap-dance in the refinery pit?”

“I can polish my own boots, Mal.” Impatient, Trip thrust off the covers and padded into the bathroom, acutely aware of a stormy stare sweeping his naked length. Malcolm snorted.

“Not as well as I can, and it’d cast doubt on my credentials as an officer around here if your footwear’s grubbier than mine,” he shouted over the plash of running water. “Honestly Trip, did you read the notes Hoshi prepared?”

Irritably mopping his glistening face Trip stomped back, snatching the clean tank and boxers his self-appointed servant had laid out ready. “You been listenin’ to T’Pol or somethin’?” he grumbled, the words emerging on a pathetic whine. “Maybe I don’t _read an’ digest_ the way you do...”

“Sorry.” Just because the lackadaisical Yank didn’t study the fine detail the way he did, Reed acknowledged, didn’t give him the right to make snide remarks. “Breakfast’s a bit meagre, but it’s tasty: just don’t drink the coffee too fast. It’s bitter.”

“Thanks for the warnin’.” Trip recognised an apology when it peeked around the corner, and proved his acceptance by tucking with enthusiasm into the plates of fancy bread, cold meat and garish pink scrambled eggs. From beneath his lashes, he watched the tight lines of tension smooth out of his lover’s brow. “You could’ve stayed in bed longer, you know. The whole day seems wrong when you do this.”

“I agree, but we can’t risk losing track of time with all that nuzzling business.” He couldn’t quite squeeze the regret from his voice. Trip’s easy grin widened. 

“Jeez, it’s tough bein’ irresistible,” he drawled.

“Hmm, isn’t it?” Equally cocky, Reed tossed the shining boot he had been working on toward his lover, willing himself not to blush under man’s half-heard, obviously approving, mumble. “I wonder if the captain might give permission for us to sleep in the first morning back?”

“We could always ask him about it?” Tucker volunteered, careless of the naked eagerness. “’specially since we’ve gotta check in with Enterprise from the shuttle: I read somethin’ about comms devices not bein’ allowed in the middle of town.”

“I’ll trot over now.”

“Gimme five minutes. We can go together.”

Reed clicked his tongue, winning a wounded look. “What?” Trip demanded, dropping his jam-filled croissant.

“If you go anywhere, Commander, your official host – namely Tir’nan – will expect to accompany you,” the lieutenant pointed out, abandoning the second boot in favour of a discreet padd containing Hoshi’s précis. “You won’t be able to walk down the main road without starting a ceremonial procession, and it’s best if our hosts don’t overhear everything the captain might say.”

“Classic British understatement, Lieutenant.” Gloomily he finished dressing, getting a smear of sticky cerise paste onto his cuff. “Dammit! You’ll be okay – goin’ alone?”

“It’s a menial errand, and anyway, nobody’s going to stop a bus to gawp at the alien dogsbody.” It took all the strength Reed possessed not to kiss his downcast lover as he passed. “I’ve been looking through the schematics Tir’nan gave you for their weapons array; it’s straightforward enough, shouldn’t take more than a few hours to unscramble. Just kick me if I start getting bolshie.”

“Yeah, right.” He’d spotted the flare of longing in the younger man’s eyes and it bolstered Trip’s faltering confidence. “Scoot, slave! Cap’n’s gonna be ‘spectin’ the worst if he doesn’t hear from us soon.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes and groaned. “I dare say he’s been expecting _that_ ever since we left the ship!”

*

He ambled back like a child delaying his arrival at the school gates: and with good reason. Commander Tir’nan stood at Trip’s side when he entered their suite, leaning into the blond’s personal space with one slim hand curled possessively around his bicep. “You took your time, Loo-tenant,” Tucker drawled, dark blue gaze dipping when Malcolm’s storm-grey one would have connected. “We were s’posed to be goin’ ten minutes ago. Whatcha got to say for yourself?”

_The bugger’s enjoying this!_

Reed rounded his shoulders, shrinking into himself like a man expecting a thrashing. “I’m very sorry, Commander. Captain Archer wanted a detailed report.”

“Hmpfff.” Tir’nan accepted the explanation readily enough but his lover, Reed recognised, was determined to play the boss for a while. “Well, I guess you couldn’t cut an’ run. I’ve been tellin’ Commander Tir’nan here how good you are with things that go _boom_.”

“You’re very kind, Sir.” And on the way to a good hiding when his next hand-to-hand combat assessment came around Malcolm pledged, desperately fighting the insolent smirk that was making his lips tickle. “I shall try not to disappoint you.”

“You never disappoint me, Mal.” Almost casually, the Southerner ran his hand the length of Reed’s tense arm, one fingertip just brushing over the cuff and onto the soft skin of the inner wrist, savouring the _back-off_ sparks that flashed in the younger man’s downcast eyes. “We okay to use the teleport again, Tir’nan? Me and Mal are expected to finish up today.”

“Of course, honoured Commander.” The Hantari was visibly steeling himself to share a journey with one of the lower orders. Reed wasn’t surprised when, biggest hopeless redneck grin plastered into place, Tucker shoved him right into the tiny gap between their taller figures. 

_I hope their molecule unscrambler works. Don’t want any of that snotty-nosed Hantari DNA mixing up with mine!_

*

Bypassing the main generators they were guided into a small ante chamber that glistened with the same kind of silvery menace Trip associated with Enterprise’s compact armoury – and, he thought cheekily, its compact Armoury Officer. A wizened young Hantari with a few hints of brown showing in his hair to match his enormous eyes shuffled forward at Tir’nan’s finger-crook to be introduced as Torpedo Officer Han’an. By his obsequious manner toward Tucker and chummy grin toward him, Malcolm gathered the man was deemed his local equivalent.

He was surprised by the wash of relief that sluiced over him. _At last, someone I’m not expected to kowtow to!_

Once back on Enterprise, he promised himself as Han’an launched into a hand-waving monologue Phlox couldn’t have bettered, he would take a more tolerant view of fraternisation between the ranks. 

He couldn’t stop the daft grin that spread across his face. _Oh, yes? And how long have you been shagging Commander Tucker now, Lieutenant? Stable doors and horses, old chap, as Granddad Parker would’ve said._

He had, after all, always had rather a soft spot for Mum’s eccentric father. And he’d better start paying attention if the odd expression contorting Han’an’s face even more than usual was anything to go by.

A day of rootling around the main power grid had given him the confidence to thrust his hands right in among the overcooked-cheese mess of melted wires that formed the targeting and detonation arrays, Trip content to stand back, hand over tools on command and loudly assure half the planet that “I’m the guy for buildin’ things. Mal’s your man for blowin’ them up again.”

He was trying to be supportive; and bearing the scandalised glances of his official escort with dignity while meekly doing his inferior’s bidding would have tested a Vulcan’s self-control. Malcolm knew that. Really, he wanted to appreciate it. 

If only that overly loud, much too jolly voice wasn’t stretching every nerve tighter than the strings of Maddie’s favourite tennis racquet!

At least a brisk demonstration of his lauded expertise lowered Tir’nan’s bushy brows to their natural level and earned him the unquestioning respect of his counterpart as the scrambled launch codes reinitialised under his expert touch. Trip’s exultant “Sonofabitch! You’ve done it, Mal!” would have been more welcome if it hadn’t been accompanied by a paternal smile that mingled his maternal grandfather and Captain Archer together (not a terrible combination, Reed acknowledged, except in the face of the man he intended to fuck silly at the first opportunity) but, combined with the admiring exhales of a dozen delighted onlookers, it established his bona fides sufficiently that Tir’nan deigned to leave the room and every person left, Human and Hantari alike, began to relax.

“They’re pragmatists after all,” he breathed, taking advantage of Trip leaning over the torpedo tube in a mime of inspecting his work. The engineer sniffed expressively.

“They’re damn nuisances,” he hissed before raising his voice to a crisply professional tone. “Nice work, Lieutenant. Shall we move onto the targeting array now?”

“If you wish, Sir.” 

They were halfway through the delicate operation, their hands brushing as they worked side by side in a confined space, when Tir’nan returned, bowing so low his prominent chin scooped dust from the polished floor. “My lord Commander!”

“Bloody hell, they’ve given you a title,” Reed muttered, automatically dropping into position at his colleague’s shoulder, head respectfully bowed. Which, he considered, at least meant nobody registered his jaw-drop when the dark chocolate voice of Chief Minister Dri’nan resounded around the compact chamber.

“Commander Tucker, please permit that I present His Honour Kas’pin, Hereditary High Priest of the Temple of Hantaris. Excellency, Commander Trip Tucker, Leader Archer’s chief of engineering.”

“Um, pleased t’ meet you, your Honour.” Damn, he felt such an unpolished hick. Johnny with his genial dignity or Malcolm, all aristocratic reserve, would handle the formalities so much better!

“Commander Tir’nan has spoken well of your labours on our behalf, noble Commander.” Kas’pin’s sapphire eyes flicked over him as if he were an unusual specimen before a glinting smile lit his unlined face. “We offer our profoundest gratitude for the service you have performed.”

“Always glad to be of service, your Honour.” Compliments instead of weapons fire: this planet had its plus side after all. “We’re just finishin’ up with the torpedo systems now. Another hour and all your major systems should be back online; it’ll take a couple of days for the non-essentials to get back to normal, but…”

“You have performed wonders, dear Commander. We have conveyed our thanks to Leader Jo-na-than, and he has most generously granted our request that you remain a little longer as our guest: you will attend a feast at the Palace of Hantaris tonight, as befits so noble an ally of our race.”

The cold whisper of Malcolm’s dispirited sigh prickled the fine hairs at Tucker’s nape. “That’s real kind of you, but I couldn’t have done it alone,” he answered, the words tumbling out uncensored in his dismay. “Malcolm here’s done most of the clever stuff with the defensive array – you don’t mind if I introduce Lieutenant Reed, our Armoury Officer? Cap’n Archer’ll tell y’, he’s the best there is.”

“Loo-te-nant may attend, if it be your honour’s wish.” If Trip had been an interesting bug, the brief glance Reed’s way suggested he rated as something scraped off a silver-soled priestly shoe. Dri’nan cleared his throat.

“Tir’nan, have a place set for Loo-te-nant among those of his station. You understand of course, most noble Commander, that by the Statues of Rank one of his lowly station cannot be seated at the High Priest’s table.”

Frustration bubbled in his chest, tightening it until getting out any reply, let alone the diplomatic one, was impossible. Tucker’s head jerked.

Subtle warmth spread from the small of his back from the pressure, he realised, of a discreet hand splayed there, gently rubbing a soothing circle. “We don’t wanna offend in any way, Chief Minister,” he muttered rebelliously, his whole posture screaming that he’d like to do exactly that. He swayed back into Malcolm’s supportive touch, telling himself he was covering the other man’s crazy behaviour. “But I feel sort of responsible for Mal here: I kinda like to keep an eye on him.”

“You are a wise master – and a generous one, to credit this minion so graciously.” He gathered it was a courtesy to him that Kas’pin glanced at the smaller human a second time. “Now, if your work is done, please – retire to the Palace of the Welcome. My lord Chief Minister will summon you in time for the ceremonies. Please, take your ease until then.”

“Thank you.” There didn’t seem much else to say: and if there was Trip would have struggled to say it nicely considering the disdainful looks the man kept flicking his lover’s way. “C’mon, Mal; we’d better go pretty ourselves up for the party.”

Gold flecks glinted through the High Priest’s skin, but their getaway was unhindered and for the first time in two days, Tir’nan didn’t scuttle at their heels. Hustling his boyfriend back to their suite, Trip congratulated himself on the discovery of the day. 

“Jeez, if I’d known bein’ silly’d get the damn hound off our backs, I’d have done it hours ago! Come on – we got the plumbing workin’ again; you wanna take the first bath?”


	8. Guest Of Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hantari elite want to say thank you. Trip's a sociable soul - but this occasion's going to be more of a trial for him than most.

He managed to siphon off a discreet dose of the most sensually scented bath oil while his partner was preoccupied, sliding it into the bottom of his toolbox for a better time and place. Malcolm took advantage of his disappearance into the gauze-draped bathroom to buff up their boots and smooth what creases he could from their jumpsuits, ostentatiously polishing the extra pip on his lover’s shoulder. “Pity we’ve no time to call for fresh clothes,” he commented, eyeing himself critically in the full-length polished glass that stood opposite the bed. “They must think we’re awfully strange, letting our lower classes run around in exactly the same outfits as the masters.”

“Prob’ly think we’re too informal to even notice their high-an’-mighty dress code.” Perched on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging, the gregarious Chief Engineer looked like the shyest kid in class on school disco night. _Do I have to go, Mum?_

“I’m sure Phlox will expect a full sociological analysis when we get back.” In flagrant violation of every Hantari rule Reed settled down beside him, one arm draped, comradely, over his slouched shoulders. “It’s only a couple of hours: and I don’t know about you, but I intend to shovel food into my mouth so fast I won’t be able to make conversation with anyone!”

“Yeah, but you’re at the servants’ table; I’m sittin’ between the High Priest and the Chief Minister. Hell Malcolm, it’s Johnny’s job to make small-talk with the important people! I’m just an engineer!”

“The best engineer the Hantari have ever seen.” Despite the tension clawing at his guts, Malcolm smirked at the delicious irony. “Buck your ideas up, Mistah Tuckah! You’re the life and soul of every party, remember? I’m the one who slinks into the darkest corner and hopes nobody’s going to start chatting about the awful weather they’ve been having on Vega Colony!”

“Sorry.” Anyone else looking so surly in the face of duty would get a stern Reed talking-to, but somehow he couldn’t do it to Trip. Giving his man a quick squeeze Malcolm pulled himself up and set about tidying the room for something other than flopping about getting maudlin to do until their escort arrived.

*

By the time they reached the Great Hall of Refreshment overlooking Hantaris’ temple his spirits had been revived even though the fine polish on his boots had been spoiled by mud and grime. Trip, on the other hand, surrounded by a gaudy circus troupe of trumpeters, dancers and a dozen women in scraps of translucent blue lace belting out their second-rate Maria Callas impersonations, would have passed for a native among the scarlet-skinned residents of Inexia Ten. Reed had never seen the lanky Southerner look more shrunken.

On the way to his place at a long trestle table in the body of the hall he managed to flash a consoling smile, pleased beyond measure when the tired blue eyes lit in answer. _We can get through this. Servants don’t make small-talk. Eat, smile, and run away, that’s the policy tonight._

For him, it was comparatively easy: seated between Han’an who, thrilled to have found someone from his own narrow social strata, seemed stuck on Fast-Forward, and a veiled woman who, if the awed whispers his security-honed hearing picked up were right, was the favoured concubine of both the men flanking Trip beneath an embroidered canopy over the top table. On the grounds it was probably a hanging offence for an inferior male to initiate conversation with her, he didn’t even try.

Every so often he would feel someone watching and carefully shielding his eyes, glance up in mute acknowledgement. Trip looked strained, faint lines crinkling the corners of his eyes and marring the pristine beauty of his sun-kissed skin. They’d barely been out of doors for ten minutes at a time, Reed mused, yet somehow his lover had topped up his tan to pre-deep space levels. And if it emphasised the small blemish in one cheek well – to him, it only intensified the tiny defect’s charm. 

“You watch your man carefully, honoured Commander.” Delicately wiping his mouth, Kas’pin covered the observation with his satin napkin, a nod from him bringing two graceful female servers forward to refill his half-empty glass. Trip, wiping the sweat from his palms on a plain cotton version, forced up an insincere smile.

“Bein’ his superior I kind of feel it’s my responsibility to look out for Malcolm, Your Honour, ‘specially as he’s a little shy around strangers.” Yes it was true, but Reed would kick his ass to Jupiter Station and back if he heard it being broadcast. Kas’pin choked slightly.

“You care for your inferiors in a strange way,” he murmured, taking advantage of his greater height to arch a brow over his guests head Dri’nan’s way. “Is this common among your species?”

“We find it gets the best out of them, knowin’ they’re appreciated.” There was a sentiment Momma would be proud of, and one Johnny couldn’t articulate better. If only it wasn’t twisted through with sensual promise, because he appreciated Malcolm Reed in ways the Hantari hierarchs couldn’t start to imagine.

And that he shouldn’t be thinking about at a table set around head height for the rest of the room on a marble plinth. Without a tablecloth. 

“Your master keeps looking at you, Loo-te-nant,” Han’an whispered, plucking Reed’s sleeve. “I thought he had more faith in you than to observe so closely!”

“Commander Tucker is what we call on Earth a _mother-hen_ , Han’an.” And Malcolm loved the great daft sod all the more for it even as exasperation warmed his glistening skin. “He worries about people far too much.”

“It must be nice to have a tolerant superior.” For the first time Han’an sounded wistful. Malcolm smiled into his brimming goblet. 

“There’s a lot to be said for keeping a proper distance, but we’re not the most rigid species when it comes to following rules.” Where certain of his superiors were concerned, that was a masterclass in understatement. _Are you watching, Granddad Reed?_

Han’an snorted, and Malcolm was astonished to realise the man had actually laughed. In public. “We guessed that when we heard your leader brought his woman to the steps of the Great Shrine itself! And then he failed to summon her until he left the planet! Yours is a strange species, Loo-te-nant.”

“That’s why you call us aliens, Han’an.” The thought of T’Pol lounging on an overstuffed couch awaiting Archer’s call to bed would amuse him for the rest of the night, Reed considered, dipping his head under Tucker’s concerned stare. _Not much longer now. How many bloody fish courses can they waft under the Priestly nostrils, after all?_

*

They staggered into their room after midnight. “Thank God it’s over,” Malcolm exclaimed, tipping forward onto the bed. He stuck out his tongue into the downy comforter, faintly puzzled by the furry coat it had grown and that it now seemed to be two sizes too big for his mouth. “Feel sick.”

“You shouldn’t have eaten so much, then.” The bed sagged under Trip’s weight. Malcolm found himself slipping right into his lover’s arms, something he knew he ought not to allow, but couldn’t raise the will to resist. He sighed, snuggling his head into the crook of the blond’s shoulder as they sank deep into the springy mattress. 

“I hate this planet.”

“Only ‘cause they’re makin’ nice and you got no chance to shoot at ‘em.”

Blinking to clear the fuzz from the corners of his eyes, Reed shifted to stare in bleary horror at his companion. “You’re drunk!” he accused.

“Am not.”

“You’re slurring.”

“And you’re goin’ cross-eyed.” 

“Am I?” Tottering over to the glass, Malcolm studied his flushed reflection for a moment. “So I am. Bugger me!”

“Love to darlin’.” Splayed out over the bed, Tucker waved his arms in the vague direction of the Englishman. “But we've gotta be good, right? Jeez, what did they put in the punch?”

“Two parts vodka and three rum to one sugar.” He felt, Malcolm realised, really rather good; certainly more relaxed than he had since this thrice-benighted planet had first flared onto their sensors. 

His eye fell on the delectable man wriggling all over that soft white bedspread and he felt even better. “You’re looking exquisite tonight, Mister Tucker,” he announced, spinning around until the backs of his calves hit the bed and he toppled, chortling, onto that strong, solid chest. “A little bit of sunshine…mmm, have you gone the same lovely gold all over?”

“Malcolm, behave!” He was adorable when he got tipsy. Emboldened by his own mildly intoxicated sate, Trip told him so.

“Armoury officers aren’t adorable.” 

“And that big pout’s real cute.”

“Reeds don’t cute, and I’m not – oh, bugger! I’m drunk, aren’t I?”

“As a skunk.” Trip swooped in to kiss that loveable pout away before Malcolm could dissolve into a gale of laughter. “C’mon, we’ve gotta be sober an’ sensible here, Lootenant. Keep your pants on tonight, okay?”

“Spoilsport.” Sticking out his tongue, the brunet scrambled upright without stumbling and discarded his outer garments with reckless abandon before burrowing down into crisp cotton sheets in boxers and t-shirt. Removing his top layers more sedately Trip climbed in from the other side, laying his back against the younger man’s. Before he was properly settled, a sleepy voice raised in protest.

“This feels all wrong.”

“I know, but it’s safe, ‘cause even your dick’s not long enough to tease me like this.”

“Mmm, sounds like a challenge.”

 _When you’re awake, maybe._

Trip had no time to finish the mischievous thought before his boyfriend’s first soft snore broke the silence. Chuckling under his breath, he let his eyes drift shut and joined Malcolm in contented slumber.


	9. Busted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asking the boys to stay out of trouble for 48 hours... It was always going to be a long shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've really been good for far too long!

He woke to the heavenly warmth of a slender body pressed tight against his own, soft huffs of deep, even breathing stirring his chest hair. Languidly, Trip lifted a lax arm to rub the silky white flesh, a smile starting unbidden at his companion’s drowsy grumble. “Don’t wanna start the day wrong, darlin’, but weren’t we sleepin’ back-to-back?” he murmured, heart turning to mush as the younger man blinked groggily, his sharp-angled features soft and unguarded for one perfect moment. Malcolm gave a leisurely stretch that reached down to his toes.

“Mmmm, obviously we didn’t like it,” he purred, his pleasurable hard-on grazing the blond’s. Trip whimpered, the involuntary jerk of his hips earning a reciprocal thrust and a throaty moan from his lover. “God, I wish…”

“Me too.” He couldn’t resist a quick kiss, his right hand gliding of its own volition across the broad chest, fingers idly circling one tempting nipple that hardened visibly in response. “You’re too damn lovely to ignore in the mornin’, Mister Reed,” he growled, conscious of time’s passage, of the titillating prickle of the hairs on his arm being brushed by a gentle hand. Malcolm’s grey eyes were still hazy, reluctance to emerge from his cocoon expressed in the tiny mews of contentment that escaped his parted lips. Utterly seduced by the other man’s languor Trip rolled smoothly over, trapping the hard, graceful body under his, lazily circling his hips until it responded and a pair of strong, elegant hands linked at his nape.

“Triip, we can’t.” Even as he undulated wantonly against the satisfying pressure of his partner’s arousal, _Lieutenant Reed_ was clamouring for Malcolm’s attention, dead-set on ruining another lovely morning. “What if they – come early? Darling, we’ve got to stop!”

“Yeah.” Mental cold water in the form of Jon Archer’s frown before his eyes stopped Trip’s movement. On a gusty sigh he flopped onto his side, careful to leave a gap between their nude lengths as Malcolm tossed the satin sheet away. “You take the bathroom first?”

“Yes, oh Master.” 

Mirth gleamed bright through the smouldering desire in Tucker’s sky-reflecting eyes. “I could get used to that, Loo-te-nant!” he hollered, clambering awkwardly out of the soft bed as the brunet vanished into the luxurious bathroom. His only answer was a contemptuous snort.

Still chuckling he shook out the clothes Mal had folded onto the bedside chest, determinedly running through the shuttlepod’s pre-flight checks in the hope of forgetting the tickling sensation that lingered, as if tongues of fire were licking at his balls. Every nerve ending was alive, sensation fizzing through his long legs as his cotton boxers slid by, followed by the harsher scrape of his coverall. He could hear splashing in the bathroom, could picture Mal standing nude beside the bathtub, the sinewy muscles beneath that pearly skin flexing as he bent and stretched, water droplets licking their lucky way down his length and sparkling like diamonds in the lovely dark thatch of crisp hairs at the base of that thick, heavy cock…

Trip swallowed hard, rooted to the spot while his mind ran wild. His penis bobbed, its enthusiasm rekindled by the untrammelled eroticism of his thoughts, and absently he ghosted a fingertip over the head, biting off a whimper when his kneecaps liquefied. He could smell the faint, sensual musk of his lover; when his tongue flicked over dry lips, he even thought he could taste the glorious bitterness of Malcolm’s essence, the first few drops leaking from the younger man’s slit at the flutter of a talented tongue, making the Brit growl and curse, hips jerking uncontrollably as he set about fucking his lover’s hungry mouth. 

“Aw, shit!”

“Trip?” Hair uncombed and jumpsuit open to the waist, Reed ambled out of the smaller room with one eyebrow appealingly arched, only to stop dead at the sight of his fully-dressed partner clutching an impressive pant-bulge and drooling. “Love, they’ll be coming for us soon.”

“I know.” The bright blue flash of the lieutenant’s boxer briefs, exposed at the waistband, drew him like moth to flame. 

Time slowed down as he sank to his knees and stretched out both hands, curling them around the Englishman’s sharp hipbones and drawing him close. Hot, wet breath huffed across his groin and Malcolm had to grab the broad shoulders before him, his fingers curling into the heavy-duty blue fabric as his legs buckled and his commonsense fled. Clever fingers found their way past his coverings and teased his burgeoning length into plain sight. “Trip, we mustn’t,” he heard somebody whine. Then wet, silken heat engulfed him, and he could think no more.

Trip hummed against the throbbing organ, teeth lazily scraping the most sensitive spots as it bloomed to full arousal and his throat opened in avid welcome. Long fingers plucked at his untidy hair, deep, guttural grunts escaping Reed’s pursed lips while he rocked, powerless against the rush of superheated sensation spiralling out from his lover’s wicked mouth. His hands cupped the bobbing head; no longer guiding, simply rubbing through the dark gold locks, the ticklishness a counterpoint to the painfully pleasurable tightness that gripped the tender balls Trip rolled against his palms.

“Uuuh… oh God….so close,” he panted, squirming frenziedly into those capable hands, his universe contracted to the wonderful things happening in his nether regions. “Aaah….uuuh… Trip!”

“Deviants!” The shrill howl penetrated his hedonistic bubble as a sigh; to Tucker it boomed across the room with the explosive force of a reactor breach, causing him to jerk backward until the crown of his head hit the floor and Malcolm was left lurching blindly for his missing heat, florid cock pulsing into cold air while his lover gaped in mute horror at the inverted face of Commander Tir’nan, puce and scrunched as he pushed two steel-haired and ashen faced attendants back into the hall outside.

“Defilers!” Tir’nan bellowed and beyond him, as the thunderous roar of blood in his brain eased, Reed could hear the ominous rumble of a dozen deep Hantari voices echoing the word. His cock dropped limp as a wet leaf, glistening against the vivid material of his uniform. Unthinking he shoved it away, one eye on the menacing crowd gathering at the door while Trip, puffing and red-faced, dragged himself upright, truculently taking station in front of the brunet.

“Uh, Mal, kinda think we’re in trouble here,” he muttered, the words sliced through by the sibilant hiss of metal against leather.

“I’d say so.” His professional self assessed the situation in a heartbeat, the lustful red haze dissolved to leave the large room crystal-clear and sharp as the curving blade Tir’nan had drawn from the ornate scabbard hanging from his bronze belt. Apparently aimless, his eye caught the taller man’s before sliding by to the wide-open windows.

Trip’s widened comically but to his credit he didn’t flinch as the clamour of voice rose, clashing one off the next until Reed could swear they were resounding within his skull. _Just as well we’re on the first floor!_

More bodies were pressing into the doorway: held back as if by a dam, Reed knew it would only take one step from Tir’nan to bring the whole horde stampeding in. He made a grab for his lover’s hand, sucked in a deep breath, and launched himself over the low stone ledge.

The last thing he saw as the world momentarily turned upside-down was Tir’nan’s contorted face at the window, livid white against dark crimson drapery. Then his bones crunched painfully and, rolling himself clear of the bigger man dropping like a sack of mouldy cabbages after him he vaulted back to his feet, aware instantaneously that all limbs were intact and functioning.

Tucker, less accustomed to the hurly-burly of security escape procedures, hung off his arm as a dead weight for a moment Malcolm felt stretch into eternity while a dozen doors crashed against walls and what looked like the whole adult population of Hantari Prime tumbled into the sunlit street. “Run!”

“Right with ya,” the older man gasped, his voice shooting up three octaves as socked soles connected with gravel street. “Aw, shit!”

“At least you’ve got socks.” His bare feet were being shredded by knife-like stone shards but it didn’t appear to slow Reed down, his legs pumping in time with the impressive flow of both English and what sounded like Klingon curses that whipped by Trip’s ear at warp 7. _He’s spending too much time with Hoshi!_

Malcolm didn’t glance behind, just kept running, the top half and sleeves of his coverall flapping in his wake as if he were a giant blue penguin desperate for the gift of flight. Not for the first time Trip envied him his ruthless discipline. Because when he broke and looked back, the pastoral scene wasn’t nearly as pretty as he remembered.

“Je-sus! They've got half the town after us!”

The exclamation was lost under a deep, tuneful boom that reverberated from the walls and made every window pane shudder. “I’m guessin’ that’s not good!” he yelled, swerving violently to dodge the first shower of stones that threatened a deluge as more screeching Hantari burst from their houses in answer to the echoing alarm call.

“Degenerates! Impure blood must flow!” Instinctively both men veered off the main road at the sight of Kas’pin rearing before them in his most extravagant robes, a golden sword glinting his shining hand. “Slay these sinners that court divine wrath!”

Trip only wished the bellow that overlaid the High Priest’s command could drown the litany of fury that pierced his pounding skull. “To pleasure an inferior is mortal sin! To lay hand on one of the same sex is evil! Strike the devils down!”

“Nice chap,” Reed panted, risking a glance back as his slippery soles touched damp, springy turf of fields in which Shuttlepod 1 lay waiting. He winced, dirt spattering his face from a well-aimed clod of Hantari soil. “Christ, it’s like a Viking invasion!”

The rabble was gaining as their abused feet began to slow them down. Trip’s shredded socks were no protection against the jab of twig and nettle on leathery skin while Malcolm’s fluent strides had degenerated into alternate hops and lurches. His breath rasped horribly and his heart thundered against his ribs, the muscles of his thighs beginning to burn as his vision blurred. He took another look backward, and suddenly those niggling inconveniences didn’t matter.

Not with an enraged pack of bloodthirsty bigots charging like so many steel-horned bulls through the long grass and their dire threats of disembowelment ringing in his ears.

The ground beneath the craft was shaking when they flung themselves against its pristine flank, their hands clashing, sliding against the cool metallic catch to force it open before diving inside, Trip stumbling into the co-pilot’s seat and firing up the engines before Malcolm could slam shut the hatch. Like gigantic hailstones missiles pattered against the pod’s side, making both men cringe as they strapped themselves down, Reed snatching the pilot’s controls.

“Pity I did such a good job of their torpedo launch systems,” he growled, almost wrenching the shuttle off the ground. “You’d better…”

“Already on it.” His stomach lurched, but the moment they’d broken through the atmosphere Trip smacked the comm., his voice raspy as much with alarm as exertion with the little craft thrown into a momentary tailspin and Reed bodily dragging it clear of the full spread of Hantari missiles detonating in their wake. “Tucker t’ Enterprise! I think we’ve outstayed our welcome here, Cap’n!”

For a heart-stopping moment only static broke the channel’s hush. Then the icy voice of Jonathan Archer filled the tiny cabin, and they wished it had stayed that way.

“So the High Priest’s just informed us. Mr Mayweather, stand by to jump to warp once we have the shuttle. Commander – Lieutenant. My ready room. Immediately. Archer out.”

Leaden silence clunked down with the comm’s snap shut. “At least he’s not throwing us to the wolves,” Reed volunteered, staring at his linked hands on the controls. Trip grunted.

“Maybe that’d be kinder? We screwed up.”

“Statement of the blindingly obvious! I shouldn’t have let the flirting get out of hand.”

“You weren’t the only one, but yeah: you know how those cute lil’ smiles of yours get me.”

“And what the feel of your warp 8 gob on my cock does to me.” Irritably he scrubbed a hand back through his messy hair, belatedly recalling their urgent appointment in the ready room and the absence of his comb, abandoned on a Hantari table. _Oh, well. The Captain’s got more to bollock you for than improper appearance at your station anyway._

“I should’ve brushed you off before getting out of bed.”

Now Trip was beating himself up pretty thoroughly, but that truculent tone, those downturned lips pulled into a near-invisible line, those rounded shoulders… nobody kicked himself harder than Malcolm Reed when his big toe had slipped off perfection’s path. With the rest of his body having slithered right along with it he’d be preparing for the ceremonial lynch mob by the time they made it to Enterprise.

As if they hadn’t escaped that, Tucker thought grimly, on Hantari Prime. 

“And since I’m the senior officer – not to mention the older man – I shouldn’t have started all that kissin’ an’ playin’ before you were properly awake.”

With anybody else, the point would be unarguable. With Malcolm, nothing ever was.

“I should have stayed in that bloody cot.”

“Malcolm, you’d have so many splinters in your back, Phlox’d keep you in sickbay a week, an’ neither of us would’ve slept a wink. You know how cranky I get.”

The Englishman opened his mouth to argue. Pulling out the full force of his superior rank, Tucker sliced a suntanned hand through the gap between them. “We’re both to blame,” he said tiredly, turning his teary eyes up to the dully gleaming maw of Enterprise’s launch bay, its jaws pulled wide to swallow their little capsule whole. “And the Cap’n’s got every right to bust us both down to crewman, second grade. That was _dumb_.”


	10. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some grovelling to be done - but by whom?

“You’re damn right it was dumb. It was incredibly stupid even by your standards. You were leaving in less than an hour. Couldn’t you have kept your pants on for another sixty minutes?”

“I’m sorry, Captain.” The careful enunciation of the title would have clued Archer into exactly how bad his friend was feeling if his anger hadn’t been operating as a personalised force field. He stalked around the room, circling his two contrite officers like a vulture over prey. “Thing jus’ got out of hand, and…”

“You’re senior officers. I expect you to set an example to the crew.”

It was, Malcolm thought, staring straight ahead as the giant blue blur of his commanding officer flashed across his field of vision, a painfully familiar lecture, delivered with an altogether new ferocity. And this time even the best Vulcan lawyer couldn’t argue it was illogical.

“We let you down, Sir,” he stated, squeezing all the emotion that threatened to break his ribs from the inside out of the flat statement of fact. 

“You let yourselves down, Lieutenant. I thought you of all people would understand the need for _restraint_.”

The word was almost spat into his face, but Reed didn’t flinch. “I apologise, Captain. I’ll accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate, Sir.”

“Just keep in mind I was the senior officer present,” Trip butted in, and even in his fury the contrast between the pair hit a responsive chord in Archer. Where Reed’s face and voice remained blank, boring a hole through the bulkhead with his stony stare, Tucker squirmed and shuffled, hanging his head as if to hide the angry tears that filled his eyes. “I shoulda…”

“Oh, stop being so bloody noble!” Malcolm exploded, all the frustration and guilt he couldn’t direct at his commanding officer being launched (quite unfairly, he admitted) at his lover instead. “I _shoulda_ been perfectly capable of knocking you onto your delectable arse the moment you started up – oh, bugger! I apologise again, Captain. This conversation is completely inappropriate.”

“If you’d given a little thought to propriety before, we might have avoided this conversation altogether!” Archer bellowed. Trip swore he could hear the creak of a dozen necks turning outside the ready room door. “You’re both old enough and supposedly _responsible_ enough to take the blame for your own actions. You’re confined to quarters for 48 hours; and I don’t want to see either of you outside of your own departments except for meal breaks for a week, understood?”

“Aye, Sir.”

Reed’s mumble faded off into shocked silence as Tucker’s head snapped up, horror writ plain over his mobile features. “Cap’n…” he began helplessly, scrubbing a hand through hair he hadn’t stopped to comb since coming aboard. For the briefest moment Jon Archer peeked through the Captain’s harsh façade.

“I didn’t specify whose quarters, Commander,” he said, fighting off the wayward impulse of his mouth to turn up at their abject dismay. “After today’s demonstration of what happens when you’re asked to keep out of each other’s pants I’m not willing to risk an _incident_ in the mess hall. Now get out! I’m disappointed in you both.”

For the first time he saw his tactical officer’s shoulders slump. “Yes, Sir,” they mumbled in unison, already turning for the door. The sharp crack of T’Pol’s voice over the comm. stopped all three men in their tracks.

“Captain, Chief Minister Dri’nan wishes to speak with you immediately.”

A raised finger was enough to stall their panicked bid for freedom. Exhaling through his teeth, Archer activated his viewer, keeping his back to the whispering pair. “You can grovel for yourselves,” he growled, all his earlier resentment rising up as the handsome hawkish face formed on screen. “Chief Minister, I can only apologise again….”

“Honoured Jo-na-than, the apology is owed by us. Ah, Commander – Loo-te-nant, I am glad to see you safe after your ordeal! Dear Leader, you have not reprimanded your men harshly?”

“No more harshly than they deserve for abusing your hospitality and violating your customs, Chief Minister.”

“Please, Jo-na-than, did we not agree, no title should stand between friends. And this unhappy misunderstanding is of our making. Your men have not transgressed as the mob has led you to believe.”

Greatly daring, Trip gripped his lover’s fingers. Malcolm bumped their hips together, placing their joined hands out of sight. “I don’t understand,” Archer whispered, his voice scratchy with a deadly mix of shock and sudden hope. “Your statutes of rank...”

“When our power grid began to fail we were compelled to sacrifice certain sections to maintain the rest.” Golden spots stood out on the Hantari’s high cheekbones, a symptom of embarrassment that eased Malcolm’s a notch. “In our ignorance we dismantled our translation matrices in their entirety, failing to comprehend the damage we might do.

“Our shared word _officer_ has connotations that differ as greatly as the societies that use them. As you have gathered, an officer is to us what you would - I believe - term an _intimate servant._ Used by you, Jo-na-than, it describes a senior member of your community; one accustomed to giving as well as receiving instruction. We must trust the gracious nature of the Lady T’Pol that she will forgive the humiliation unjustly heaped upon her.”

“T’Pol’s people regard embarrassment as an emotion; something they’ve striven for centuries to repress.” Archer explained, quick to identify the faint distaste that washed over the tall Hantari’s lean features. “To be upset over an innocent misunderstanding would be illogical.”

Dri’nan nodded, magisterially, folding his hands on his desk. “I am thankful, but a life without emotions, Jo-na-than... to my people, that would be mere existence.”

“As a human, I’m inclined to agree with you.”

Watching the two men smile at each other, Malcolm Reed was visited by a stab of realisation acute enough to be painful. _Those two actually like each other._

“Had we understood the minor disparity in your status Commander – Loo-te-nant– the painful haste of your departure would have been avoided.” Dri’nan continued, dragging his gaze from the older human’s. “You took no hurt from the missiles that were hurled?”

“None whatsoever.” More by luck than judgement, Reed considered wryly. Hopping along barefoot with his jumpsuit unfastened to the waist and the sleeves flapping in his wake, with Trip cursing up a storm at every stony step... it was a miracle they’d stayed ahead of those vicious-looking curved swords.

“But the fault’s still largely ours, Chief Minister,” he went on, ignoring the alien’s protesting hiss. “We knew perfectly well what assumption your people had made and knowing that, our behaviour was unforgivable.”

“Yours is an admirable species – Loo-te-nant, may I use your given name?”

“Please do.” Warm colour touched his cheeks again. Reed wondered briefly if he’d ever blushed so much in a single morning before.

“You do me honour, Mal-colm.” Dri’nan half-rose from his gilded chair, plush emerald robes cascading around him. “To accept fault in one's actions without thought for the errors of others proves enlightenment beyond that the Hantari can claim. Perhaps both our peoples may gain greater wisdom through the misjudgements made in this first meeting!

“Your generosity implies the Hantari are at least our match – may I?”

The dark alien’s head dipped. “As a friend and a man of an officer’s honourable rank. Of course.”

“Dri’nan.”

“Um, you mind me askin’ somethin’ here, Chief Minister?”

“Please, Commander. And I would be honoured if you, like your partner, would consent to use my proper name.”

“Likewise – ‘cept I prefer Trip t’ my proper name, an’ that’s what all my friends call me. I just wanna clarify here: you’re not freaked out by the whole _guy_ thang?”

Hoshi claimed the UT struggled with the full Tucker Floridian drawl, so Malcolm didn’t want to guess what his lover’s anxiety-ridden accent was doing to the delicate Hantari translation array. Dri’nan’s jetty brows drew together in concentration.

When comprehension dawned, he actually laughed.

“Honoured Trip, every nuance of your visit will fascinate our anthropologists for decades to come!” he exclaimed, clasping his glittering hands in glee. “Such couplings are unknown to our race; we had heard rumours of course, but to have spoken with such a pair; to have observed their interaction under most trying circumstances... your excellent Doctor Phlox would, I believe, sympathise with their enthusiasm.”

“Yeah, Phlox is one enthusiastic guy.” That seemed clear enough, but he’d been around Malcolm Reed too long. Trip had to be completely clear. “So it was just the rank thing made those folks want our hides for hearthrugs? I thought the High Priest said…”

“Entirely,” Dri’nan assured him, the faint furrows of a frown marring his pristine brow visible despite the channel’s wavering. “We are, perhaps, severe in our structures, but we reverence love in all its forms: and I trust we are a pragmatic race. As to the High Priest…. It is sometimes overlooked that Great Hantaris himself had in Jol’tan one who, so the sources say, he loved above all the others! Your men received poor payment for their efforts on our behalf, Jo-na-than. Perhaps I can offer a more fitting repayment?”

“We’re happy to have helped a friend, Dri’nan,” Archer protested. Cautiously the Hantari leader mimicked his gesture, raising both hands palms uppermost.

“But a kindness cannot pass unmatched. I am informed that your engines require a great deal of deuterium. You will have noticed, Trip, the by-product of our generators…”

“Grade A deuterium,” the engineer confirmed. Dri’nan nodded crisply. 

“By the command of his Noble Eminence the High Priest Kas’pin I offer a trade, Leader Archer,” he intoned, sitting straighter as he fell into his official role. “Five thousand litres of our surplus deuterium in recompense for the labours of your honourable officers.”

“That’s extremely generous, Chief Minister.” Yes, Archer had recognised the symbolism, drawing himself as close to his full height as the low ceiling of the ready room would allow. Judiciously shifting to the classicAttention stance, Malcolm felt pride surge through his veins at the bravura diplomatic display. To think he’d ever worried Jonathan Archer might be yet another loud-mouthed halfwit blundering into political quicksand without a rope and winch!

“Trip, have we got storage capacity?”

“Yessir. I’ll get a team right on it.”

“With your permission, Chief Minister, I’ll bring a collection team down this afternoon.”

“We anticipate your coming with pleasure, Leader. Gentlemen, I realise you would prefer to avoid the scrutiny which would inevitably be directed toward you…”

“You’re very thoughtful, Chief Minister.” Relief leaked through Reed’s every word. The big black eyes of the Hantari twinkled with near-human mischief. 

“Perhaps your physician would care to join your party, Jo-na-than? He appeared intrigued by every aspect of our society, and the broadening of horizons is advantageous to all species…”

“On Phlox’s behalf, thank you.” The formality had gone from the exchange, leaving two men of different worlds who just really got along, Trip mused. If only every planetary leader was as open-minded as Dri’nan, their mission might have been one hell of a lot smoother.

He barely heard the two men arranging a mutual download of databases, snapped back only by the rich chocolate voice of the Hantari lingering on the second syllable of his boyfriend’s name. “Again, I apologise for our ungenerous conduct: you, and all of your species, will be welcome visitors to Hantari Prime in the future. Until later, Jo-na-than my friend.”

Before Archer could reply, the screen went black.

“We did one hell of a number on their power grid,” Tucker volunteered into the strained silence that followed. When his captain swung around the bright green eyes, crinkling at the corners, were unmistakably those of his friend.

“And a few other things as well,” he countered. “Now, I guess you probably didn’t have time for breakfast this morning, so why don’t you go grab something from the mess hall and take it – I don’t know, somewhere private. I remember saying something about quarters for 48 hours…”

“Aw Cap’n, you’re not gonna go through with that whole punishment thang!” Trip lurched forward, one hand already outstretched to grasp the older man’s arm before the glee twisting his craggy features could sink in. “Aw shit, you got me! Malcolm…”

“I think we’d best bolt while we’re ahead, Commander.” Gently taking his other arm, Reed clouted the door release before Archer could think to object. “Confined for 48 hours you said, Sir?”

“I did. Breakfast, Captain’s Mess, 0800 Monday.” Both men were grinning hugely now, and any lingering anger Archer felt dissipated in the sight of his friends’ unabashed joy. “You can help me word my report to Starfleet Command on your experience of the Hantari! Oh, and I’ve got the playoffs – came through while you were planetside. Join me Monday night, Trip? I’d be glad to teach you the game too, Malcolm.”

“Then we’re not grounded after all, Dad?” Considering they’d been caught doing worse by a bunch of seriously mistrustful aliens Trip shouldn’t have been surprised that Malcolm kept a hold of his arm crossing the bridge.

But he was. And he loved it all the more for what it presaged. 

Forty-eight hours to themselves. Wrapping his arms around his lover’s compact frame as the ‘lift doors buzzed behind them, Trip Tucker released the breath he’d been holding to rustle the silky darkness of his lover’s hair. Suffering the Hantari class system had been worth it for a reward like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here endeth this particular tale. Thanks for reading!


End file.
